Counting Gourds

And then man said, "Let my greatest fear, be the fear of loss."

Time winds down as we become natural slaves to it. The days become shorter, the nights horrifyingly longer, due to the aggravation of insomnia and depression, or the fact that I perhaps did not accomplish much of anything that day.

Soon the images I stared at whilst driving down Memory Lane became blurs in the distance; a dissociation if you will. All momentum froze, as the realization of the sinking sun appeared before me.

This was the problem I encountered; losing everything, but nothing. Seeing the stars before the sky. That old saying, how does it go? "You don't realize what you have until it's gone." I found this statement to be shockingly true, and so did the rest of the world, at the least the part that was somewhat aware to the fact that we have nothing to grasp hold of, except for our own skins and dignity. All these moments, these precious memories we have stitched to heartstrings and neurons, nothing but pure illusions that the clouds sometimes let us in on. The spherical form of the Earth is rolling down a hill, but it seems that I have become so incredibly adapt to the falling that I'm barely noticing myself go down with it.

All the moments that have passed me by, countless. The imprints I have left on polluted sidewalks, the slight smells of various perfumes wafting through the cold air, the physical forms of objects I mistakenly hold so dear to my working body, a creation of blood and flesh that somehow stands up right. Will I remember the way my childhood home once smelled, or will it become just another cologne labeled déjà vu? Will I remember the tight embrace of my mother, the way her hair was not speckled with gray tints, when I am elderly as well? Upon my death bed, will I recall the crinkles of a child's eyes as their face fills with innocent laughter, the feeling of turning the first page of a new novel, the way the sun sets and rises, leaving holy shadows and early dew along its path.

One day, all of this will be gone.

As depressing as that can be.

One day, all my memories, from the first sight of a Fisher-Price toy, to the final chapter of my life's story, and everything in between, gone. No one will be here to remember it, no one will be able to look back upon them as I did, no matter how many photographs I litter my wall with. The lessons will become just more grains of gravel to the dirt, the laughter, the grief, the emotions, all deposited into the bank account of kingdom come, or thrown into the coffin that lay under the cold clay of the Earth.

If I were you, I would best be counting my gourds, and perhaps my blessings, too. We can only try to shuffle all the moments happening now into the cavities of memory, because one day I won't be waking up to the smell of coffee, but to the bittersweet earthiness of tea, instead.