Embers

The most salient passages in our lives seem to be those lost years, those wasted years. I sit up late, and look out at her, at the moon’s radiance—so like that forgotten time.

A time where we broke free from our enslavement to seconds, minutes, hours, days and all was one. All was the past, present, and future: the created and uncreated.

What is it that we see in the fleeting moments in which we so keenly put our hope, and dreams; our life? Of that which makes us who we are, we shrewdly look to what was, what should have been and the embers left from the hopes of what could be. All our sweat we use to keep the fire alive, to gather wood, to feed a dying flame.

With our hopes and dreams of grandeur in what once was we have forgotten what is: The Dawn of the Golden Sun.

“We cross our bridges when we come to them, and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.”