These furtive moments that seem so important have no longevity outside of nostalgia. Our way back whens eventually catch up to us, but back then they were nows, and they were momentarily everything. I think that's strange. I think that's deceptive. Every day I wake up and fear what actions will haunt me, what inaction I'll rue. As it happens, each moment is one tiny block in a built multitude, vast and concealing. Sometimes it's best to remember this momentary attribute of life, but then again, I think that only makes the less enjoyable bits that much harder to bear. And I know there's another way to look at it, but I just can't seem to get the hang of it.
I tell myself to take each day like a lighting storm and vibrate like each second is more than just that: but a drop of lifetime, an eternity in itself. Faded pictures evoke, belly laughs echo, and all in all the past enables.
And when the sun is shining it's good.
