I am looking back over the pages of my life's story. Some things I will
pass over, pretend they aren't there. Some I will read and re-read
lovingly, the pages worn with care. Others I will pause to quietly cry
over; things I lost, things I said, people I miss.
Today I am nostalgic. Sometimes this means I am yearning for a simpler time. Admittedly, I have always been kind of an adult. So a simpler time for me was before I realized there was such a thing as the internet and that it could inform me of all the horrors I was missing out on in the BFE. A time back when I believed in one God, who loved everyone. A time when Y2K and the election of George W. Bush were all I knew of the outside world. That and abortion...
It is times like this that I really want to write the whole story down. Finish that memoir I keep starting. I have started it many times over the years. However, it seems silly to write a memoir now while I am still young. Except I've never really felt young. To me, age has always been a number, a silly one at that. Age defines you when, really, it should be your maturity level that defines you. I have never been my biological age.
With that in mind, it makes sense to write that memoir. Get everything down before I am too bogged down to do it. The problem is every time I start it, I find myself bogged down. Too many memories go into a memoir. Both good and bad. If I made a memoir of only the good things I'd be leaving out half the story, which would be unfair to the reader. At the same time, I am afraid to reveal so much of myself.
What if no one likes me? What if no one wants to read about me? What if I leave absolutely no trace of myself on history's pages? What if all I am is a Facebook page of worthless nothingness?
When I was younger I believed I would have a bunch of children (this number varied from 20 to 16 to 5 to none) and they would be my legacy. As I got older, I thought I would do something great with my life and leave my mark that way. Now I don't know how I will leave my mark. Will history remember this blog? Will history remember my story ideas? My poems? Will history be so kind as to remember that I even existed?
Think of all the people who left no mark in the book the history. There have been billions of people on this world. We know so few of them! I don't want to be one of the forgotten masses. Is that wrong?
Am I what is left in the hearts of my friends and family?
I guess part of the reason I am thinking like this is because I have been thinking of the people on the RMS Titanic. I am thinking a lot of history right now, because I love history. Because I love my memories entwined with history's.
I've rambled long enough I suppose. I will have to revisit this idea sometime later... For now, I need sleep.
Today I am nostalgic. Sometimes this means I am yearning for a simpler time. Admittedly, I have always been kind of an adult. So a simpler time for me was before I realized there was such a thing as the internet and that it could inform me of all the horrors I was missing out on in the BFE. A time back when I believed in one God, who loved everyone. A time when Y2K and the election of George W. Bush were all I knew of the outside world. That and abortion...
It is times like this that I really want to write the whole story down. Finish that memoir I keep starting. I have started it many times over the years. However, it seems silly to write a memoir now while I am still young. Except I've never really felt young. To me, age has always been a number, a silly one at that. Age defines you when, really, it should be your maturity level that defines you. I have never been my biological age.
With that in mind, it makes sense to write that memoir. Get everything down before I am too bogged down to do it. The problem is every time I start it, I find myself bogged down. Too many memories go into a memoir. Both good and bad. If I made a memoir of only the good things I'd be leaving out half the story, which would be unfair to the reader. At the same time, I am afraid to reveal so much of myself.
What if no one likes me? What if no one wants to read about me? What if I leave absolutely no trace of myself on history's pages? What if all I am is a Facebook page of worthless nothingness?
When I was younger I believed I would have a bunch of children (this number varied from 20 to 16 to 5 to none) and they would be my legacy. As I got older, I thought I would do something great with my life and leave my mark that way. Now I don't know how I will leave my mark. Will history remember this blog? Will history remember my story ideas? My poems? Will history be so kind as to remember that I even existed?
Think of all the people who left no mark in the book the history. There have been billions of people on this world. We know so few of them! I don't want to be one of the forgotten masses. Is that wrong?
Am I what is left in the hearts of my friends and family?
I guess part of the reason I am thinking like this is because I have been thinking of the people on the RMS Titanic. I am thinking a lot of history right now, because I love history. Because I love my memories entwined with history's.
I've rambled long enough I suppose. I will have to revisit this idea sometime later... For now, I need sleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment