"It is manifest that the varieties of being concerned or dedicated, and of loving, are important to us quite apart from any antecedent capacities for affecting us which what we care about may have. This is not particularly because caring about something makes us susceptible to certain additional gratifications and disappointments. It is primarily because it serves to connect us actively to our lives in ways which are creative of ourselves and which expose us to distinctive possibilities for necessity and for freedom."
-Harry Frankfurt, "The Importance of What We Care About"
Monday and Dr. Bombay's Underwater Tea Party, Candler Park. A chalkboard announcing red velvet and chocolate peanut butter cupcakes. A sunworn banner across the ceiling, delicately.
Three customers in the shop, and one of them maybe my age. He opens the door for two small girls carrying pink, blue ice cream cones. We look up, and quickly look away.
I've remembered the room through fond distance. Everything was hot and closed; so that's how the summer ends in Atlanta. I was there to think about the 1895 Cotton States and International Exposition, before school started again. One hundred pages about something that happened one hundred and fourteen years ago: a senior thesis, looming or beckoning, and promising; on the horizon for March.
Writing this is incredibly hard. But I know it's only difficult because I care so much. If I didn't care, it wouldn't be.
I'll try to remember that, reaching back through the haze to September and heat.