July races to its ends. Leaves that recently were bright sprouts darken, grow tired, I know how they feel. As you grow, you realize that you cannot go back again, you cannot start over, you will not have your entire future ahead of you. On the radio, a voice you know from your youth speaks of loss, of grasping at straws, of allowing every last vein within your skin to feel the immensity of the world. How we are insignificant.
Once, years ago, when you felt you had everything left to live and all the immensity of the world ahead of you, you said
Nothing really matters
which means that everything does
You get to choose what your life will have been about. Perhaps it doesn’t matter then how much time you have left to confirm it.
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