It has been a hard few weeks. The days and nights have run cavalierly into sepia dreams. I lay awake deciphering the light and shadow blurring upon the pages of mind. Are the colors of my youth so diluted into the whitening hairs upon my head as to be forgotten? Or is this simply a new canvas upon which the universe has given me to paint? Perhaps with new hues to draw out new wisdoms?
Pausing. I do not like the world to glimpse the unsettled floor of thought beneath the glass covered waters of words. Yet, even poets grieve, heave, and slump at the weight of life. Sages, too, surely pass through times of wintered worry and sands of doubt. So here lay drafts of a soul in need.
Sometimes it is hard to remember the passings of adventures I once held as trophies bravely displayed. Sometimes it is difficult to call to mind the faces of those with whom I shared briefest joys. I mourn them. I let loose the tears of forgetting to wash away the sense of loss. Then, I come here to be refreshed and revitalized, renewed by words my former self gave to those I have never met.
A question: Did my past self, in prophetic unknowing, leaving a message for this self who would pass by to read her words?
Perhaps. A thought is pushing forward, determined to be written.
The colors of my life have not faded, have they? The passing of my youth does not mean the youth of my soul has gone. I have passed into the world, been changed, and continue changing. This is epic. This is the epic journey of life. To fill the world with naivety of youth, to paint with the grandiose visions of eyes yet tried, and to live a life filled with the struggle to see it come to fruition. Who is to say that vision should be now? Perhaps the painting will not be finished by my hand. Perhaps the painting will be finished by the ones who come after. Maybe this self, is leaving breadcrumbs of wisdom for another hungry soul, who will feast on them and leave the scraps of their successes, failures, fears, doubts, and triumphs for the next. So… mourn I the last of my memory, but joyfully I claim the knowing that the tomorrow I have not come to will be greater than this if not in me, in those I share with.
I shall leave these thoughts as they are, for now. Perhaps I shall make sense of them tomorrow.