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I was walking along some old abandoned railroad tracks about a month or so ago. The sky looked threatening but in the end it only produced a gusty wind. I came to a bridge on the tracks, and as I looked down at the supports whilst I was walking across, I noted a large amount of spray paint adorned them. There wasn't your standard "gangsta" tagging with the words of hate mixed with cryptic acronyms: rather, there were memoirs. Little notes like "Bobby loves Suzie"; a line trumping a now-defunct death metal radio station as the greatest radio station of all time. I got the strangest feeling as I walked along the tracks that day. It was as though I was walking backwards in time viewing excerpts of another person's life like a silent voyeur.

All of that got me thinking about my own life; Moreover, how little of it I've actually lived in. It seems to me that the majority of my life has been spent thinking about how my life should be, or how my life will be, or what will be coming to me in 5 or 10 years that will finally make me happy. In the mean time I have been ignoring the very facets of my life that make it a happy existence. The very things that define me later in life.

I can't help but think that if a person were to walk along the trestle of my own life each trestle would simply read "see next trestle" until the bridge ended with no words of meaning ever written.

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