“The past is gone.”

That’s a lie. The past superimposes like a template. It overrides, echoes, and grooves an outline on our present. 

Were we able to rise with a blank slate, maybe our sense of wonder and appreciation would flourish. 

Age brings wisdom. But it also brings the uninvited companion of certainty. Certainty murders creativity and whimsy. 

Memories and nostalgia are our constant companions. They are both comfort and curse. You cannot remember the earthy smell of wood smoke from your childhood without the pang of knowing the people that dwelled in that place with you are no longer here. 

The timespace theory of our timelines being a book is true. The past is still there and some of us live in it. Our experiences both enhance and discolor the world we’re in right now. The future is always a burden on us too. We live with worry, as if worry is a real action and makes any difference. The future can no more be controlled than a feral cat. 

I watch people getting older. One of the worst things about the human condition is that we lock in as we accumulate experiences. Instead of being magical, we become static, finished, and rigid. 

I think back to 19 years ago when the universe slapped me out of certainty. And when that feeling of surrender started seeping back out of me. That knowledge is not tangible, but I feel its absence.