I hear the tick-tick-tick of time as it surrounds me, and in its presence, I am humbled. By the fleeting beauty of life, by the abundance of dreams, by the abundance of peoples. Peoples. Plural. I am astounded by the sheer immensity of the world and how there is nothing to fear but fear itself, if you get right down to it.
When I was in my wannabe-philosophical state of mind at age 17, I was holed up and boxed in by my firm belief that there wasn’t a point to anything that we did. Simply because at the end of it all, our only consequence is death. Everything else is just a long, winding road building up to it.
But… At the age of 17, I was also smoking deliberately, drinking excessively and cocooned in my very firm (and very wrong) belief that I had reached poetic nirvana and there was nowhere else but down and that worst, I hadn’t any idea of what panache was or even knew how to search for Great Perhaps’. Lost, as I was, I had convinced myself, at the tender age of 17 that I had peaked.
Flipping through post cards and journals and facets of our pasts, I’m often reminded of how much more to life there is, of how much more to anything there is. It’s not so much how much you try, but more of whether or not you’re going to. The brutal facts are that 1. nobody else in the world cares if you care or not. Regardless, the world still moves on. 2. the world has a long list of dead names. Another added onto that list wouldn’t matter. and 3. when people die, they simply cease existing. It’s a simplistic truth. No philosophies needed.
Afternoon lights and long walks on the beach, summer tans… These things fade. As I listen to the tick-tick-tick of time as it trickles away from me, I can’t help but feel left behind. Who I am changes with each passing tick, as does who you are. Who we all are. What the world is. And as soon as the tick ends, the world has moved on.