I remember the Day...
I just amused myself for about 45 minutes putting some things together in chronological order. Dating documents would be a good habit to get into when take such great joy in the recording of your life. Reading these always makes me think of the things I've learned; who I've been; who I've touched; who I've become. And these dates come to stand out in my mind:
-December 1, 2001
-May 15, 2002
-August 13, 2002
-September 15, 2002
-December 23, 2002
-January 19-22, 2003
-June 14, 2003
-August 15, 2003
Some days have been turning points; other simply outstandingly wonderful or terrible. All will be remembered by me for as long as I keep my cluttered manilla folders. Living in this world's a cute little game. Sometimes it makes me feeling like I'm writing a picture book for little children with big colourful pictures of smiling kids, wide-eyed over grotesque things --- animals being devoured alive by swarms of ravenous ants; severed figers drying in the sun; long, cracked skulls of bull Moose. And I've archived days which remind me of illusive contentment, whether or not I actually think I experienced it on whatever day I am recalling. I close my eyes, and I can see that world, warmed from the inside; the world with the brown sky and bright stars, and rolling hills of brown grass; the world with smoke in the air, and bonfires dotting the horizon.
And I haven't lived at all yet. I've done nothing; created nothing. Contributed nothing. Taken nothing. Been nothing. Yet I somehow have 300-odd pages sitting near my feet, and a list of dates that is meaningful to me. For just about the first time ever, I feel all wrong wishing my life away. I don't deserve to make that wish. Not now.
(This is for me...it may not make sense)
-December 1, 2001
-May 15, 2002
-August 13, 2002
-September 15, 2002
-December 23, 2002
-January 19-22, 2003
-June 14, 2003
-August 15, 2003
Some days have been turning points; other simply outstandingly wonderful or terrible. All will be remembered by me for as long as I keep my cluttered manilla folders. Living in this world's a cute little game. Sometimes it makes me feeling like I'm writing a picture book for little children with big colourful pictures of smiling kids, wide-eyed over grotesque things --- animals being devoured alive by swarms of ravenous ants; severed figers drying in the sun; long, cracked skulls of bull Moose. And I've archived days which remind me of illusive contentment, whether or not I actually think I experienced it on whatever day I am recalling. I close my eyes, and I can see that world, warmed from the inside; the world with the brown sky and bright stars, and rolling hills of brown grass; the world with smoke in the air, and bonfires dotting the horizon.
And I haven't lived at all yet. I've done nothing; created nothing. Contributed nothing. Taken nothing. Been nothing. Yet I somehow have 300-odd pages sitting near my feet, and a list of dates that is meaningful to me. For just about the first time ever, I feel all wrong wishing my life away. I don't deserve to make that wish. Not now.
(This is for me...it may not make sense)