When does old begin?
When does the whisper of death, that was once a haze in the distance, become a scream a few inches from your face?
This isn’t as morbid as it sounds (I promise), it’s actually quite positive, if you stick with me.
There are a few colossal themes that dictate our obsessions and anxieties; death, money; time. Quite basically- it all comes down to numbers; the number of days left, the location of the zero-before or after- the other numbers in an account, number of minutes in a day, number of days in a life. We’ve become so accustomed to counting that we’re actually rather good at it. But where the struggle seeps in is the actually making days count. Time flies and it rolls onto the next but it never just happens. We post throwbacks longer than we spent living and enjoying the moment we were in. We tirelessly fantasize the future, without ever sculpting it from the present. We’re not so good at the here and now. There always needs to be a larger thought process in which we are in the middle of.
What is the actual point of photos? And, who are they for? I, personally, hoard photos and every single time that little “your storage is full” bullshit message pops up I can’t bear to part with the photos that are looked at, less than three times in any given month. The moment loses value, the moment reliving takes priority over living. You can’t relive life and if you do it properly, you shouldn’t need to.
My nanny inspired this thought earlier when we were sharing stories and laughs. Talking about the ‘old days’ and she said “we weren’t old then, sure look at us now”. And it hit home for me because you never know when your time of putting dents in the dance-floor, becomes your time of watching from the sidelines. They didn’t have phones- and they didn’t need them… They were living. And the reliving is only possible because the living was.
The message of this is not anti-phone (as we are the scrolling thumb generation) but pro-live and predominately, pro-living-well. Don’t spend your time, as doing so presumes the immediate relinquishing of it. But soak up your time. Soak in every second andbe all there. Soak up your life in a way that your stories are a legacy of the adventure you lived. Soak up your time, doing what makes your soul dance and your heart laugh so that exaggeration has no place in your reliving. The predictability of time doesn’t have to be so: it doesn’t have to be nine to five. It doesn’t have to be degree by twenty one. It doesn’t have to be waking up at forty after blinking your life by. You can be on your deathbed regretting or you can be sitting laughing with your grandchildren, sharing the stories of the magic of your time. Time is yours. All yours to soak up. It can be what it is or it can be what you want it to be.