The other night as I walked home, I had what, at the time, felt like quite an epiphany; some bit of fractal thought I knew could be translated into a short 200 words post – something brilliant and illuminated. I rolled it around in my mind, shapeshifting and rebutting, finding ways in, through and out of the wormhole. I walked and walked the few blocks back home, satiated in my sense of self, the sense of my words, of a message. Floating on my language, the currents beneath my street meandering from 11th to Gough, back again to Folsom under the bright sun.
And you can probably guess by my meanderingly flowery language, that what, in fact, happened is that I made it home without a single reminder of the words I had just been tumbling around. The brightness disappeared around a corner, underneath the door mat, a broken back somewhere on the stairs up to the apartment. By the time I got inside, even the idea of a thought had been evacuated, slipped right down my spinal cord into the ether.
I sit now on a train reminiscing about this moment, how many of them I have lived through, the refuse of good ideas, flotsam and jetsam escaped to the vacuum. The collective stew pulling back fruits given and left to ripen for too long. A reminder that time is not an ally, not an enemy, a conspirator or advocate – we are simply taken by it, it changes the world around us breath by breath wherever we are, however long we hold our tongues, lungs or hands. How many arguments left in the darkness, how many roads to bliss and understanding swept away because of the fragility of the human mind against the blistering hammer of time?
This is not a manifesto to remind myself to seize the day, for it has already seized me. I merely must acknowledge this and continue to squirm regardless. To patch the day, roll with the day, find ways to make a better tomorrow – for it is coming. To bask in the light, to breathe the air, find a stasis in affection, appreciation and abundance, to stock pile the comfort – for discomfort is coming.