flowers planted while the dirt's still hard

i was standing on a corner downtown, across from the library, next to a huge and austere building containing godawful chandeliers, when i texted him. as i sent it i recieved a message from him. i laughed out loud at the "okay, everything's gonna be just fine, life is magic around every turn"-edness of it all. a bedraggled man passed me and said hello with a smile. i grinned back widely, automatically.
i have a similarly symbiotic, if one can call it that, relationship with a woman at work. when she's having a bad day i am goofy and competent, and vice versa. we help each other. we even started having the same Cycle, which is eerie, since we never see one another extracurricularly. jokes have been made: "keep it together" i'll tell her. "i'm having a crappy day", or similar. it is therapeutic as fuck to have people like that around.
stumbled upon a book today, not literally (though i suppose it is literally, being a book... shut up): a compilation of secrets sent on postcards. i'd heard about it before, immediately going down my narcissistic litany of 'secrets', realizing that i cannot think of anything about me that at least one other person doesn't know. it is fucking amazing, in any event. i recommend a special sojourn to the 'cultural studies' section of your nearest odious chain bookseller. the cover looks like a binder with rubber bands around it.
while not 'secrets', there are shameful (and vengeful, and perverted, and pathetic, and self-loathing, and inflatedly self-congratulatory) thoughts.... shame is relative, though. notions i should probably be abased by, i am not. i have a lot of familial shit, i guess. i often wish i wasn't an only child so i would be able to regard my upbringing with greater clarity, have someone else to commisserate with, know that certain things existed because another person was there to witness.
it is quite rare that i can say, with assurance, that things are going to be okay. even now, as i believe it, i wonder what i am missing.