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.