Friday the Thirteenth.

I won't lie to you, my life has not been an easy one. Not since I was diagnosed with Severe Depression six months ago - Maybe not ever, thinking back on my youth. Lately, though, I have been struggling. I have been struggling to find happiness in the seemingly endless drama of my life, struggling to keep my head above the murky waters of mental illness, and struggling to find meaning in this brief whirlwind called life.

To say that it has not been easy is an understatement of epic proportions.

But every now and then something happens that makes me stop and reevaluate everything I think I know and feel. Sometimes it's a Big Bad and sometimes it's no bigger than a dew drop and no louder than a whisper. Today, it came in the form of a small piece of paper.

I have some strange hobbies, I must admit. But I also have some pretty lame ones - including collecting postcard. (One step above collecting stamps, right?) You don't have to tell me what a geek I am, it's a well documented fact.

There's something about postcards that tugs on my heart strings. Every postcard is a moment in time. Someone, somewhere, stopped what they were doing long enough to choose a card. I've never seen anyone buy a postcard without careful deliberation. Just the word "postcard" conjures an image of giggling friends - or lovers - playfully perusing cards in a little tourist shop and THAT, there, is the moment.

Like a vampire, I feed off of those moments, savour the taste of experiences lived that will never come my way. Unlike a vampire, one day - probably sooner than I would like - I will move on from this life but those postcards will remain. Those MOMENTS will remain, frozen in time for another sad, struggling person to cherish.

I didn't mean to go quite as far as I have... I only meant to say that I collect postcards but my thoughts ran away with me. And the reason I mention it is that I was standing in the hallway at work today, talking with an old friend, when a boy from my department came up to me. He told me that he heard I collect postcards and he handed me a postcard he brought back from his holidays. That. That was the moment that made my whole world stop.

Now... This boy and I are not friends (friendly but not friends, you understand). He did something kind for apparently no reason and without expecting anything in return. Just because. I don't know what meaning I'm meant to draw from that but I won't pretend it didn't move me.

A moment of someone's life, freely given... There must be some kind of magick in that?