There is a strange quality to how memory and sentiment cause me to feel somehow both full and lonely at the same moment. As if I was part of a ancient tree, but am an isolated branch, living through the lens of ancestry, and yet reaching my growing fingers toward unexplored sunbeams.
I want to stop and dive into that feeling, without somehow getting lost in the past. Its a mix of wonder and sadness. Knowledge that all things will end in my experience, but will also never truly be lost.
I think for me it comes down to the people in my life and their experiences. I am fascinated by the lives that I will never live. I am humbled by the possibilities that I see in the mirrors of others. I am in love with the love that I’ve shared and received. I take courage from the strength of the stories that those close to me have helped me write. Forgetful of the joy until it is joyful again. Stung by the pain until the companionship and hope of relationship makes me forget.
Isn’t that just like life? Its hard to grasp, impossible to keep, but beautiful in its difficulty.
I’ve realized that we need each other. We need each other’s stories. When we’re driving alone at night, as we’re saying goodbye, as we’re starting new chapters, I believe those stories will save our lives. The endings, the bittersweet, the beginnings, the ecstasy; they will be the promise that more awaits, that life is abundant.