December, don't come. I'm not ready for you. I'm not ready to let go of any more time, even though I am so curious about what 2005 is like. Will you give me a hint? Do you know? Is 2005 kind, fun, a good dinner companion?
Maybe it was a mistake to go reading my old blog entries so late into the night, so early into the morning. The trusty optical mouse, sometimes so much like a Ouija board triangle, temptingly led me to the entries from the summer of 2002. It was a time of immeasurable hope and fanciful living, of positivity and inspiration. And then the next two years slowly trudged along, bringing me other kinds of glorious highs and formidable lows. I look back and realize that so much has changed, and even if my life has improved, I don't know where this leaden sadness comes from.
Is it a person or a place I am longing for? I don't feel like doing it over again -- oh, that would be so much work -- and I'm glad that I'm here. But when you switch on your Palm Pilot or your Outlook or your Blackberry and look at the day's events, the technology isn't so advanced that it can remind you of a soul you used to have, or of the heart you used to wear on your sleeve. It does not play the music that made you nor does it recite the poetry that touched you. They'll show you the things you have to do. These things, this minutiae, the rocks and rubble that buried your spirit into the quarry that is now your life.
If every morning, I could wake and be shown briefly a reel of what my life has been, so far... and remember that beauty and be able to carry it through. Just a little longer. Like November.
posted by Lucy Sloan @ 2:15 AM
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