Today is a day like many others; there was some work activity, a time for reflection, desires that ebbed and flowed before finally catching an unlikely, forgotten interest, some rest (but not enough), and general cleanliness. It could have been another day, maybe yesterday; it will probably be tomorrow. From proximity, it seems hardly remarkable, faintly contributory, and grossly routine - and I don't even technically live in New York!
Yet behind the day, there are several days combined that begin to tell a story, with countless small acts that compile a colorful mosaic of experiences; the accretion is the thing, for under the weight of a sack of days (months and years strung together) is a more meaningful story. Lost in the minute contribution of a day is the magnitude of the journey, a more substantial revelation than is found in the action item list and email box of a day-to-day office job.
Can every day be its own journey? Perhaps if one has the proper attitude to assemble a day's perfunctories into its own glory, then yes. I find this hopeless, though, because it is the day, with all its monotonous routine, that slowly accumulates the necessary living space to account for a fruitful journey. It is in the daily act of living that our existence is confirmed, the daily paper shuffling, keystrokes, subway rides, ticking clocks, mobile phone rings, computer hums, air conditioning whirs, hallway chatter. It is crossing Madison Sqaure Park and its center fountain after work, walking past Times Square throngs for the hotel, and running in Central Park. It is the people all about us, intersecting with our own daily routines that is vibrant. It only takes one monotonous day on top of another to sway the journey.