Fading Memories in anticlimatic

At some point yesterday, a million years ago, 20 years ago, I climbed out of a 1986 Mercury Sable (with a bench seat), and ascended the back porch stairs to my summer job at a cafe. The place smelled like burnt coffee, boiled onions, and dirty dishes. The sun was bright and setting, but didn’t hurt my eyes; the air, I wore it differently back then. It was lighter, like it was lifting me- tossing me through life, time and space, as it caressed. Sweet motivated youth. I recall an idealism not shaped by culture, a mystery to things not neutralized by cell phones or the internet. Life was only the conversations we had, and the people that passed through it were only as permeant as addresses and phone numbers written on napkins and scraps of paper. All was the song of the family, and the dreams of the driftless.

Sometimes when I think of life I see a great rolling blob, like some kind of holiday jello dish with nuts and fruit floating around in it. I see it as this rolling mass; a gel-liquid of time and space with odd objects of odd sizes floating around in it, and we- with our surf boards, or without them- trying to exist upon this mass and survive. When we’re young the air carries us, and we surf with ease- but eventually we get bogged down; go under. The great whirling mass of life which once held us up and allowed us to see from very high up, gets right on top of us and drowns us. Can’t fight the entropy, energy- like the sun itself- is a finite resource.