Measuring the time of a better life
depends on who you ask.
Life as better cannot be defined
in a three dimensional photograph.
Life as better hasn’t happened yet.
If I wanted to remain in the past
I would have ended myself then
and left a nostalgic corpse.
Instead, I go onward
along with the erosion of mountains
and aging of the moon.
An old oak that outlives generations of humans
does so by periodically sprouting new life.
A life of perpetuating memories is a life stopped.
Blasting back to the past makes me uncomfortable. Nostalgia is rare for me. When I observe others trying to recreate the atmosphere of their childhood, or keep repeating a personal era that appeared special, or hold onto tastes that they insist should still be relevant, I find this existence to be anachronistic. A burden, and insecure.
I want to keep pushing onward no matter the damage done to me. I haven’t had any glory days so far, at least I hope not. I’m pretty unimpressive if the past is the best I can do. Priorities change, but the goal of arrival has not.
Humanity seems split between those gripping fast to an unreliable past, and those trying to brave the unknown future. I must be a young soul, always looking forward to what is new. My past hasn’t happened yet. I wear life on my face and process age in my head, but I brave the unknown.