Note: Now, at the commencement of my birth month and the approach of my natal day anniversary, marking the penultimate year of my seventh decade of life in this world, thoughts of the meaning of mortality arise. This is one…
‘Tis always a temptation to revisit (restore!) that time afore (that then-time) so, to see (to be) my younger (better? best?) self before the changes wrought by chance and circumstance, and my not so grand choices.
That then-time when flesh raged with vigor, fatigue was a stranger, sight was undimmed and all horizons nigh; not as now, my earthly tent frayed by aging’s daily decay.
That then-time when potential was untapped (presumed inexhaustible); not, as now, in too many times past, in vain pursuits, squandered (and unrecoverable).
That then-time when daydreams were the sterling-currency of hope’s exchange; not, as now, many transfigured as nightmarish specters (as close as next-thought) of my failures.
That then-time when questions were bright, sunlit avenues of discovery; not darkened paths dead-ending into pitiless barricades of ambiguity.
That then-time when first-loves were s’pposed to be forever; not thresholds to earliest regrets.
That then-time when life’s-end was afar off (and unimaginable), not today’s wholly conceivable awareness of sooner-than-later death.
Ah, at times, I’d love to revisit and restore my yesterdays.
Yet dare I ne’er fall prey to this temptation, save in recollection. For only in this-time canst I live, aye, thrive.
This surest-truth summons daily that I embrace, embody (having become and still becoming) me.
© 2021 PRA