Time is a treasure box full of keepsakes. Moments click by every second, seating new tokens of anecdotal offerings for reflection. What we’ve happily completed, duly executed, smartly to sullenly repeated, barely begun to produce, refused, or remain toying around imprint their flashes of character upon us. From surefooted to shakey, I believe our history alights all of our future. I trust in a supposition that the majority of our life excursion course work is about crushing how much closer we can connect with cravings that existed possibly from breath numero uno through hopes we but dare rarely during dreaming. Pining given amply fond pondering may breed a bunch of momentum toward human escalation. The measures between one’s many leaps and mishaps amount to mounds of nostalgic reverie. These trophies of remembering keep one warm and help propel us onto novel ground.
There was this person I always wanted to be. She wore pretty outfits that kept the attention of the cute boys she idolized, many of whom adored her in return. She was a devout hippie without any knowledge of the meaning nor lingo. She bathed in moonlight, swam with all sorts of fishes, and never feared her sun worship. She hadn’t mapped tomorrow because today was so juicy there wasn’t space to consider anything more. Then, there’s this person I became. She often traded pretty for practical professionalism. She still chased the men, yet seemed to lose the art of balance amongst who pursued her equally. She began choosing versus being. She noted she required an unruffling of her static within the boundless reaches of nature. But the gaps separating such convening grew wider. Afterward, there’s who I am writing to you now. We reek of rumination if we’re not careful placing it.
I’ve kept longing like some people stock a home bar. You’ve got the special memory you only bring out for rare occasions. Perhaps an engagement, as you’ve just anticipated the idea of your in-laws-to-be combing through your family photo albums, especially since schnockered suits the least retention of a semi-sordid history. So, if you’re similarly sporting singledom same as moi gliding through yet another holiday, a vintage Louis Cristal champagne or a smooth as silk thirty-year-old Sherry Oak Macallan will do nicely. Couples tossing jabs at one another do support those extra treats with which you’ll readily roll into bed sans commentary. Although, I’d rather combat muffin-top nooky to have the opportunity at all. Then, there’s your everyday hunger: sleeping, waking, showering, cooking, slothing solo. Its comparable alcohol is bottom barrel jugs of vino or multi-gallon vodka bottles poured casually for anyone. However, never ceasing to leave.
Is yours a far distance you need to take yourself backward in order to capture that age in which everything hovered as a creation solely for you? Those eternities that stretched as effortlessly as the lazy summer stream or the winter’s feet of snowpack making armies of snowmen a frigid breeze. If you’re one of those souls that the world has trucked in severely too much poop for you to have seen your way to the surface beyond smelly shite, then partially receive this as my best rendition of a Southern preacher’s shout-out on high to the heavens to get it’s ass in gear to deliver you the goods already! For me, pigtails with Peeps-yellow bows possess a sacred enterprise I find myself seeking at my succulent midpoint age of fifty. That girl has all the etchings of this woman, granting this woman carries a caboodle of emotionally impactful accoutrement from her youthful girlish self.
Places to people are wont to harass our minds plus their mending if we ignore their purpose. We will feel hurt. There will be a condition and/or a person attached to that incident. Your translation of why you’re putting up with certain circumstances, as well any locations throughout your timeline that you’re departing compared to delaying matter for your motions of merriness. Doubts are merely precision material for processing yourself into the break you’ve actually awaited all along. It’s the poignant gathering of our own biographies over and again whilst in narration that issues emancipation from mourning. Pretending we can forget preys on fatality. Allowing ourselves to pick up the pieces and remove any wreckage solicits deliberation. Whereby stubbornness sways to lingering prospects of ease. The math of epic epochs is computed through positive annotation. Wistful is an effective accessory if used appropriately.
May your past times largely be lovely, lasting pastime.