An Hour Glass Wrapped in Paper

Some days it is as though repetition and mediocrity fill my days; running through wheel after wheel, I cannot help but to feel the tiredness seep into my pores. Reality swirls through words and actions, rationality mixing with memories (emotional at the core) and even when I pause for a deep breath, I become a small speck of confusion, lost in the waves.

People like to tell me this is the prime of my life; these are the best years, the years I used to look forward to and the ones I'll nostalgically look back on someday.

Perhaps I am naïve, but I prefer to believe that life grows continually more beautiful, and to refer a certain cluster of years as the 'best' is foolish. As one big gift, we work at the wrapping paper edges and rip off the bow and slowly, ever so slowly, realize how beautiful life is. Some days we can't get the package open and despair; others the radiance of the gift inside blows us away. Perhaps we won't realize its true beauty until we are on the edge of life, teetering on the brink of an imminent unknown.

I am in awe of how easily hearts are broken. Words and clips of phrases echo in time, at times skewing the day with a surreal haze of the past intwined with present hopes. No matter how deeply your hopes are rooted, no matter how increasingly impossible it is believe, the past has passed. And still, the heart refuses to believe all that reality unveils. We have become an army, each soldier pushing forward into the endless future, waves upon waves of generations tearing up the paths we're given to walk.

How do we break this endless journey we're given? Where do the rays of sunlight break the tedious crawl, where do we pause time with just enough confidence to allow ourselves to fall in love, to jump in puddles and neglect our duties, to sing a song and swing on the neglected playset we've forgotten?

And it's then I think that perhaps the best years of my life are not now, for my present is plagued with thoughts and worries and doubts. Perhaps the best years are the beginning and the end; from the swing set to the creaky and well loved rocking chair. From the purest of innocence to a sea of infinite wisdom; and someday I shall contentedly sit aside, old and grey, able to reflect upon all of life and worry of nothing but the gentle creak of my favorite rocker, comforted in my knowledge that my life was seeped in love.

But for now, solitude and peaceful silence are timeless; hidden coves in a reckless sea of time. A gentle breeze softly sweeps across my cheek and for a moment, my worries have melted away with the snow.