These are my fragmented lines I’ll include in my to-be-written comprehensive writing project: Life Is. I hope you enjoy.
The hourglass of life contains a finite quantity of sand. Each grain encapsulating a single memory formed as it glances through the neck of present time. Over time the memories form a kind of loosely built pyramid. The driest of sands without a binder free to mobilize and shift where our minds most want them. Our freshest memories establish the capstone bound in each moment serving as a foundation on which we build new memories. A new capstone for every moment — every memory. Each new capstone attempting to bury the past overtaken by the stronger, more recent memories — good or bad.
Adversity hasn’t enemies nor allies. Itself a deviation from convention. The elasticity of life; challenging our resolve, our inclination, and our will. To recognize adversity’s face we must be deft. To conquer it, we must manifest elasticity, thereby becoming Adverse.
What can I do now to remember myself in my next life? New life has boundless opportunities to re-explore the old and explore the new experiences we were unable to accomplish in one sitting. One single lifetime of accomplishments. Is there an opportunity for us to remember this life in our next? How is it possible? Is there some sign you can leave your new-self to find in the future? There is a disconnect between the old and the new. Severance from one life to the next. Detached.
No part of our physical bodies would transcend from one to the next. A new body forms with an untraceable pathway to the past, but our souls are a stamped passports of past lives lived. Which measurable qualities of our souls are evident, and how so? How can we access this hidden compartment within the non-physical portions of ourselves?
A young boy has captured my heart. I watch him run along the shoreline at Half Moon Bay where the crisp morning air is filtered by the salt. The sand is bright with green seaweed and fragmented shells. A vast crescent-shaped coastline marked by boulders, umbrellas, and bicyclists. Wind gusts challenge the gulls as they struggle to reach inland.
He smells like the salt, my son. Bright blue eyes matching the crested waves crashing the shore. I’d like to capture him in this very moment. A miniaturized version of the landscape encased in a snow globe: him building his sandcastles and burying his rubber centipedes with the thought of finding them with some version of his future self upon his return to this very spot we call heaven. This heaven I can put on my mantle to revisit at my heart’s desire. I relish this suspended moment of time.