At fourteen, I thought less about the future
and, unaware of Buddhism, lived in the moment.
Even a day was usually unplanned, spontaneous,
open to what the universe had planned for me.
If life is like a sonnet, the turn occurred when
the future became my focus and the present
rushed by out of control, and the past
became nostalgia, a read book fondly remembered.
At fourteen, I believed, without proof, in eternity.
The days unfolded unbidden and I was content
in thinking at some point I would be able to see
That fourteen-year-old’s future is my present,
slipping away from what I wanted it to be,
and even partially my past, now already spent.
This time of predictions and resolutions.
Year’s end reflection back, and looking forward.
That river of time, downstream as distant
and unclear as upstream, and before me
passing before I knew it was here.
Water – shallow and muddy – like the present
moment. Then clear and deeper – the past,
but not so long ago. Further back,
clear and so deep, clear no longer
applies. Thick glass. Opaque memory. Droplet moments.
Image Credit: Photo by Skitterphoto. Public Domain via Pixabay
is an arrow of increasing correlations and
one’s perception is movement from known past
to unknown future, but we find randomness
that cannot be undone on this quantum walk.
Entropy increases but all the possibilities exist.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
― T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets
She is a one-roomer – a Kafka character,
except they are never women – all alone.
Using all my blues to paint hers –
turquoise, cobalt, ultramarine, sapphire – her sad life
is still a cerulean past, indigo future.