A question to myself. Why bother with words? Surely I know how I feel. Why bother expressing the expressions? Would I ever forget the journeys? Dismiss the past? Consign to oblivion the lessons learned? Probably never. I say probably never, for I have said definitely never many times before; only to witness otherwise.
Back to my question. Why pen down the anticipation, the disappointments, the joys, the journeys, the experiences beyond? To share with those before me? They’ve already experienced it. To share with those after me? Why ruin their surprise? To share with those that never will? My words may never do justice to the experience.
All that leaves is but me. I write for myself.
For in the final lap in my race to depletion, when the body is less than ideal, when the mind is fickle, when those around me lie in wait for my convenient demise, I will have no better company than the memories I create here and now. And as the arrow of time extorts, distorts and decapitates much of what I have to remember, as memory fades quickly and the details become sparse – ripe for nostalgic rewriting – it is through this digital ink that I shall travel back in time, relive the moments, stay true to the experience, remember/realize that my life was not wasted, that I spent it with friends, with family, with faithful machines that braved the toughest terrains to allow me to live life instead of getting through it, to forge friendships that would stand the test of time, to forget those that betrayed me, to remember those I lost, to the Universe that conspired to make me…me.
And if all goes well, maybe someday I’ll sit the young ones down, offer them milk and cookies, open my big book of blogs – printed out in big bold fonts for the convenience of my dying eyes – and share with them my adventures, in the hope that they might someday rediscover our legacy…that which we discovered decades before them… Freedom.