Losing Shit

Three months ago, I lost my bank card. I searched the entire house for it. I emptied draws, turned out pockets, flipped sofa cushions; nothing. So I emptied more draws, turned out the other pockets, double flipped the same sofa cushions; still no bank card. Frown lines deepening, hair growing thin, I sucked my teeth and scratched my arse in a state of total bemusement. Standing there, lost in the abyss, afloat in the mess of myriad possible resting places, time steadily slipped away. Hours turned to days turned to weeks as the bank card became but a distant, dusty memory. Today, three months later, I found my bank card. It was under a sombrero on top of the fridge; I don’t remember putting it there. An age could have been spent searching and at no point would it have crossed my mind to check under the sombrero on top of the fridge. Hours upon hours of waking life squandered, precious moments of a fleeting existence frivoled away on a fruitless task, ferreting for what cannot be found.

By death, how much time will have already been wasted in the sterile search for missing articles, for that which could never be found by way of that strained pursuit? Things often lie in wait in unlikely places, only to be discovered when least expected, to surprise and delight in time. Let go of the search for the particular and open up to the possibilities of discovery. Once the blinkers of expectancy are cast aside, unforeseen pleasures may present themselves freely and openly. Save frustration, conserve energy, spare yourself the time of frenetic searching and afford serendipity its grace. Life is found in the rolls of the dice, the collisions of chance, under the sombrero on top of the fridge.