Sometimes I forget how overwhelmingly lucky I am with this life, and oh how I tend to dwell on the has-beens and the what-ifs, forging a tenuous identity based on evaporating, porous memories and perilous words of past. I cannot help it; I am an aptly unforgiving human masquerading as an altruist in the truest sense. As we all can be, when the occasion calls for it.
But I am getting better at it, at acceptance. Consciously being grateful for what I've got. Perhaps it comes with age, this tell-tale acceptance of what is. It is comprised of a steady patience that had oftentimes eluded me in the not-so-distant past, and likewise, continues to both inspire and challenge me in the present time.
The past cannot be rewritten, and memories cannot be revisited without a glint of the imaginative eye adding a word here, a false detail there until that particular memory is no longer viscerally recognizable, and instead becomes a memory among the many that are seared into the non-linear history of our lives. It is all relative, this tough job of remembrance, conjuring up memories to fill the vast emotional void. That's what journals are for: to fully document, in real time, our conversations and interesting tidbits of the day, all the while knowing that we will be able to revisit these very words when the occasion calls for it years down the road. That being said, writing as twilight settles and the house creaks and stirs is a magical time that connects the conscious and unconscious, the thoughts had while awake and the exacting life of dreams.