Begins, dark before breakfast, before papers, before coffee. Each week’s race/pace born of driving forces. Once, that goal was a strong week of sales, payday on Saturday – paid for Saturday night fun. Memories, faint ones. Things change, perhaps less than we do?
Each week, each year – platform/foundation. What to do, what to expect, what to work for.
This week? Might be different. No going back, no looking back, no time for nostalgia or regret – there is time, much less of it, out in front.
Time is wind. Get wind of it. Time is sand. Slips through, nothing left. Never hiding – always there, beside me and with me, behind me and out in front of me: there was never enough, never too much, I’ve only had my own canvas to paint. I’ve painted less than I could …
Aging is staging. Heard that many times. Missed its call. Never to be for me, because I kept thinking like an adolescent who wanted to grow up but couldn’t get to feeling like an adult, like a man. Teens flew, twenties too. At the same time, both a son and a father – no need to bother, there would be time to feel all those times and stages. Flew. Faster. Damn. Where did time go?
Each week, opportunity spread like a meal – picnic for grazing, open to possibilities. Every kind and notion. Limited by things to do and finish, others to start (they’ve been held back by last week’s baggage and last month’s and last year’s). Not limited at all, really, but it is convenient to think it so.
written / published from Calgary, AB
morning walk with Gusta: 13C/55F, overcast, steady NW wind, warm jacket – Gusta enjoyed our much-longer-than-usual jaunt, I loved the morning fresh, or was it the quiet? Both I suppose …