It started with this. So start with this...(please press play as you read)
Saturday morning. The sunbeams prance about the room; the mood is light, the music loud. Mairin showers, Kaia is working on a painting and Skye spins in the middle of the room screaming, “I’m ballerina.” I smear peanut butter on a slice of toast. I'm hijacked by nostalgia.
San Diego, Mission Beach. Hungover. The day is long and swathed in a boundless freedom I will never understand. My hair is an exhausted shade of magenta and my collarbone juts out from beneath my skin. We are young and invincible. The bruises are the only evidence I need. I reach for a smoke, find a beer, and head to the ocean.
I have no regrets. There are no comparisons. I lie. Sure there are. How can there not be? There is a sadness, which settles on your shoulders, when you realize you will never be who you were. You are stuck with who you are, or if you are lucky, who you might become. This is okay. Look at her spin. Look at that smile. This is fine. I am evolving.
Later we head to the pool. I see this...
...minutes later, it is gone. I think of this. In particular, "The Buddha taught that because conditioned phenomena are impermanent, attachment to them becomes the cause for future suffering."
The cloud is gone. Vanished. Like it was never here. What had given me so much joy, what I had captured forever in this picture, what had been so real, is now gone.
This will be me someday, I think. You too. I smile. All of our thoughts muddled in webs of veins and blood, all the hopes and dreams dipped in angst will one day, sooner than later, disappear. It will be like we were never here. Some pictures may remain, perhaps a few ramblings- digital graffiti etched onto the these cyberwalls, fragmented pieces of us may obstinately cling inside a few people’s memories. We hope we will live in our children's hearts, but if we wait long enough, we will all disappear. The only part that ever remains is what grows from what we are, and not even that lasts too long.
I watch Skyelar splashing in the pool. The sky is empty, except for a new cloud trying to embody form. I think back to San Diego. I think about the present. I think about the future. Was. Am. Will be. Gone.
Saturday morning. The sunbeams prance about the room; the mood is light, the music loud. Mairin showers, Kaia is working on a painting and Skye spins in the middle of the room screaming, “I’m ballerina.” I smear peanut butter on a slice of toast. I'm hijacked by nostalgia.
San Diego, Mission Beach. Hungover. The day is long and swathed in a boundless freedom I will never understand. My hair is an exhausted shade of magenta and my collarbone juts out from beneath my skin. We are young and invincible. The bruises are the only evidence I need. I reach for a smoke, find a beer, and head to the ocean.
I have no regrets. There are no comparisons. I lie. Sure there are. How can there not be? There is a sadness, which settles on your shoulders, when you realize you will never be who you were. You are stuck with who you are, or if you are lucky, who you might become. This is okay. Look at her spin. Look at that smile. This is fine. I am evolving.
Later we head to the pool. I see this...
...minutes later, it is gone. I think of this. In particular, "The Buddha taught that because conditioned phenomena are impermanent, attachment to them becomes the cause for future suffering."
The cloud is gone. Vanished. Like it was never here. What had given me so much joy, what I had captured forever in this picture, what had been so real, is now gone.
This will be me someday, I think. You too. I smile. All of our thoughts muddled in webs of veins and blood, all the hopes and dreams dipped in angst will one day, sooner than later, disappear. It will be like we were never here. Some pictures may remain, perhaps a few ramblings- digital graffiti etched onto the these cyberwalls, fragmented pieces of us may obstinately cling inside a few people’s memories. We hope we will live in our children's hearts, but if we wait long enough, we will all disappear. The only part that ever remains is what grows from what we are, and not even that lasts too long.
I watch Skyelar splashing in the pool. The sky is empty, except for a new cloud trying to embody form. I think back to San Diego. I think about the present. I think about the future. Was. Am. Will be. Gone.
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