Angels in the Architecture

Paul Simon's Call Me Al has been on my mind lately. Specifically the third verse.

A man walks down the street
It's a street in a strange world
Maybe it's the Third World
Maybe it's his first time around
He doesn't speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound
The sound
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says Amen! and Hallelujah!

It is Saturday night. I'm sitting alone in my apartment after spending the day in the office trying to impress the boss who will probably never be truly impressed with anything. I have more work to do but I want so badly spend the rest of the evening watching TV and eating pizza. I want to hear a friendly voice. I'm tired and I'm frustrated.

At present, this is the architecture of my life. I keep waiting to see the metaphorical angels in the architecture, the little bits of joy that make life more than just being here.

Happiness is something that has always been hard-won for me. Something has gotten ingrained in my mind somewhere along the line that keeps me reserved and keeps me from letting it in. Wonder and happiness and accomplishment. They don't seem real unless they've first been ordained by an outside source. That's where I'm going wrong. I keep waiting for someone to point out the angels instead of seeking them out myself.

Seems simple in retrospect, doesn't it?