It’s true. We are so busy. Life is so hectic. We spend so much time living up to the expectations we have set for ourselves or the expectations that were once thrust upon us that we miss moments. And moments are never actually lived in the moment. They are lived more in the memory of that moment rather than having embraced and felt the moment as it happened.
Be the good daughter. Be the great student. Get the perfect job. Marry well. Buy a beautiful house. Have children. Retire. But then? What’s left? There really isn’t much left after that, is there? Well. We know the answer. It’s death. That’s what’s next. And it seems pretty damn final.
And so I write. I write my life. I write to escape real life. I write to live moments over again. I write to rewrite the moments I’ve lived over in a way that makes more sense to me. I write the moments to heal. I write the moments I hope never happen. And I write the moments I hope will happen.
As Shakespeare wrote above, living really isn’t about material things. It’s the experiences we have had. Our eyes. What we’ve seen. What we’ve lived. More importantly, it’s what we feel. That makes us rich. If I stay stuck in this place forever, what will I have seen? Is it enough?
Yup. Some days, I wish I could pack up on those “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad” days and I say, “I think I’ll move to Australia.”
But then I remember. There are still terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days, even in Australia.
But love? Love can be found anywhere. And I have seen love. And perhaps, that is really all that needs to be seen after all.