As the Carillon Plays, So My Life Plays Out

I resist the treasure box of everything I've lost.

Not out of fear. Not out of guilt. I resist reappraisal of all I've lost because it's the past. Rummaging through it would be like trying to translate Homer into Tarot, their languages not in my wheelhouse by any stretch. How can I translate things in my past with the language of things to come? Things in my past are written in a dead language.

The treasure box of everything I've lost is expanding. I am constantly losing things, for without loss there is no growth. Each item in the box was an education. I grow wiser as my treasure box expands.

There is only one thing I would search for first, but to say that is a trick: I would search for my future, rising like an evanescent mist into reality as I distance myself from the past. (You can't see the future when you're in it. Like a fog.) It's there somewhere because the future just cannot be without things lost, forgotten, and dealt with, under the lock and key of perspective.

I open the treasure box and its carillon plays, and that is my future—intangible and orchestrated in expectation.

There would be no future without the things in my treasure box of past things lost. It is a continuum, but only the things lost can be hoarded away in sequestration. I can look but I can no longer touch them. But as much a part of my life were the things in that box, the future is more a part of my life, whether harmonic or discordant.

The past is dead, interesting in the way a dead language is—important but irrelevant; the future is alive and growing.

When I'm dead and cremated, that treasure box will burn as well, and its ashes will combine into what I remain, in only yore. My past and future will be indistinguishable, as the ashes of what was me. It will be a summary of everything I've learned in my life on planet Earth. Hopefully those ashes will fertilize the Earth for the things to come.