I really wish I could control everything in my life, like some grand story. I wish I could control how others saw me. I wish I could control what happens to me and others. I wish I could stop whatever hurt or pain comes. Grant every wish and desire. Burn every bad decision and stupid word. But if life — through all of time (past and future) — were a wall, our moments are but a small clump of events.
Holidays are ripe with memories, nostalgia, sentimentalism, strife (or contempt), and occassionally calm and relaxation (but I have three kids, so that's merely a situation that other people lie about). As I grow older — and successively see my past fade away into nothingness — I can't help but preoccupy myself with thoughts of what (my life) is and what (my life) will be.
There is never a moment in life where you know who you are. As each moment and decision and reaction and circumstance unfolds and disappears, all we are left with is reflection. Memory. You might know what to do or say, but we only know who once were.
10 years ago, I was forced into a life (that I would later embrace) beyond my choosing. For a long time I blamed others, I stewed in injustice, wallowed in self-pity and allowed myself to make bad decisions because I was only worth bad results. Whether we make a choice or have it made for us; each decision and reaction we make has it's flipside.
It starts off the same. It's starts off with excitement and enthusiasm and wide open horizons. A little optimism and naivety about things being different, or better. A swift pace toward a simple goal. There's no desire for a slow decline, that stumbling forward and paused caution, for quiet dispondency. And before we're aware of how it happened, we've stopped; out of breath, tired and worn out.
I have a tradition of reflecting upon another year of living with an (now) antiquated "blog" post that's part humor (in my mind), rememberance and heart-felt emotion. The older I get the easier it is to get lost in the could-haves, and memories — so that I don't forget who I am and who I still want to be.
This past weekend a we had a large crate delivered to our driveway. Within it contained some old furniture and several boxes. The stuff of my childhood dispersed across hundreds of miles, a casualty of divorce and moving on and aging. Boxes of musty old clothes and wrinkled drawings and small tokens of the boy I once was a very long time ago.