Didn't know what to say or feel today. I was bored. Not your standard boredom. The likelihood of feeling that standard boredom the same way, every day is pretty remote. It's random. Like a blog.
We (or I) spend(t) it dreaming. Dreaming that the sun would never set. And our eyes love it. We spend seconds on the happiest moments of our lives, and figure, it could get better. Doing something comes to mind. But not for long. We daydream about great places to be, great ideas come to finality, great persons yet to be met in our lives. It's fun -- for a spell.
I get emotional over it. The thoughts disappear. When I look at the fading sunset of a day, knowing I didn't do what I was meant to do, meet who I was meant to know, or go the places I was harbingered to go, a bit of us must fade away...the time is lost. And immortality is the only escape.
The passage of a day is dependent on our interaction within it. How the seconds pass is usually a matter of oneness with the moment. A quick day has us doing all kinds of things -- moving items, ourselves, talking to people of worth, determining things on the fly -- whereas, a slow one, has us sitting, sleeping, watching, observing much of nothing or nothing that's real.
One of my readers mentioned swimming with sharks, and I think that describes an activity that time would spin by rather quickly. Placed on the razor's edge of a eating machine, as you faced mortality would make time nearly irrelevant, moving so quickly, while trying to escape to fight for more days, months and years. Your senses, sight, sound and feeling, would be on high alert - and no one would figure you were uninspired at that instant.
I find solace in knowing I have one more day ahead. Designing it to not be too bored. Designing it to take advantage of whatever small abilities and realities I can. Discovering if I had done enough to warrant remembrance -- knowing I hadn't --yet when it is all over, that is the human condition to desire some remembrance as being here.
How many have passed away without that? How long did it take to forget them? Who was the last person to remember them personally? Who remembered them via a book, a reading about them, even in a dusty old log book of death? What is the average amount of time before we are forgotten by our offspring?
I suppose it is best to get out there and take the shark by the fins and ride the wave. Or we'll not like the answers resulting from our passing.
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