The thing about youth is that you are new — to the whole wide world and everything that is in it, along with your every experience, and even yourself. Every moment during my early twenties was punctuated by wonder so profound that I would spend hours on whatever caught my eye at that moment, that inspired me, and I’d photograph it, or make notes, or draw it in my sketchbook. Not only did I want to consume something, you see, but I also wanted to understand it, just what made it so special in the first place. I wanted to make every second I spent with any given thing of interest count.
And the days draw long when you are young. Time truly is relative to the moments one has had the privilege to experience, whether it’s someone affluent, high-class, or simply working to transcend their current reality. A day takes up a larger portion of a younger person’s life than someone older and maybe wiser. But, consequently, being “mature” means that one has less of a need to spend that time with as much… fervor.
There is the intensity, I imagine, that comes at the end of life. It is not all that dissimilar, I think, from the energy needed to start one out. There is the regret of things not said, versus the regret of not knowing what to say in the first place. There is the need to be special, at every moment, to reach your apex young so that you are beautiful enough to fully enjoy it, and…
