Oh bother. I’m remiss in my lament of turning forty. Now, suddenly, I feel rushed – like there’s just not the time to honor and regret this momentous occasion. There’s not time to write the tome that chronicles four decades of kisses, the touch that never saved me, the stories unwritten, songs unsung and futures unexplored. Now, suddenly, I feel rushed.
It seems no matter how much time I set aside, no matter how much preparation on my spiritual mountains, I’m not prepared for what comes and what goes. I just need time to think. Time to sort all this out. I’m sure the answer is in here somewhere if I just had time to reflect on this all. And I’m certain, perhaps tomorrow, there will be time and there will be time. Now, suddenly, I feel rushed.
I will perhaps regret not finding the time to lament this day fully but it feels there’s so little time left and it seems such a silly waste to spend it on such futile labours.
3 comments:
I feel like this often on birthday's. But what do you mean by this line? "the touch that never saved me"
Well, you know, sometimes we invest so much meaning in those gestures, a slight brush of a hand, lips, an electric touch that sends shivers everywhere - and while those touches can totally rock my world, I don't think they'll ever set me at peace the way contemplative meditation will - the way spending time coming to terms with my beliefs and actions do. Sometimes, indeed, they're a big distraction (like Rilke wrote... "is it any less difficult for lovers who run toward each other to hide from their fate?"... or something like that.)
That's very much along the line of "mindfulness" that I've pondered lately... I love this like of thought.
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