It seems that the more I live, the more I grieve. Not necessarily because there is more to grieve for (although sometimes this can be said to be true), but because with each year that passes by, there are more moments lost, more thoughts forgotten, more lost dolls and their dust tendrils that are being abandoned under the cupboard.
It's not that I am sad; neither am I in the hysterical throes of a midlife crisis. Rather, I am feeling loss in the sense of it being a feeling. Isn't that strange? I'm not even sure if loss in itself is a Feeling.
Oh I know. Even I get impatient with myself because I should really be living in the moment. But somehow the anticipation of growing up is much sweeter than growing up itself. The anticipation brings with it gleeful thoughts of legitimate rebellion, unrestrained freedom, uninhibited expression (as opposed to the sullen Neanderthal grunts of our younger years). And as for growing up, well, that just creeps up, unnoticed in the fanfare of the anticipation.
Until you feel Loss.
Everybody sails alone
But we can travel side by side
Even if you fail
You know that no one really minds
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