I never want to grow old and fade. I see older people just trudging through life, and I pray that will never happen to me. I want to always be excited, to never dim. To find pleasure in hearing a favorite song or watching the black silhouettes of trees as the sun sets. I wonder being so excited about life is a young persons ‘ game. If we are the one’s who feel so damn alive, and that we use it all up before we hit 30. Or I wonder if it’s personality. I know young people without zest, who are merely floating by. Complaining and unhappy with the supposed banalities of everyday life, instead of discovering new emotions and trying to describe them. Instead of having an insatiable curiosity for every moment. Do you ever hear a song at a particular time, sometimes unexpected, and believe that in that very moment everything will be fine and all the terribly awful things in life are actually very small? Do you ever remember that happening to you? I try not to complain. I’m horribly optimistic, a rather esoteric quality that I have been realizing not many people posses to the same degree that I do. Even the happy, optimistic people I know seem cynical. I loathe whiners, and they in turn abhor me, since I always give them plenty of reason why they should be happy-the simplest and most obvious reason is that they are alive. That they are well. Whenever I see mentally handicapped individuals, I think of their nature. I have not the faintest idea what that must be like; I cannot fathom what goes on in their minds. But I see them smile, and think that if this life is enough for them, then surely it must be enough for everyone else.
What if I stop loving road trips? What if I grow weary of stopping at random gas stations for coffee and candy, lottery tickets and slushees? What if staring at trees and hills and general scenery bores me? What will I do if I stop looking at everything like it’s a work of art? How phone lines and scaffolding are comparable (and more relatable) than Michoangelo’s David. How the sun shining and reflecting off the clouds is indeed a more beautiful ceiling than the Sistine chapel. What will I do? Some people now don’t even understand my mind. How I adore old things because I feel they have some sort of residual spirit clinging to it of the person who had it, wore it, or looked at it before me. I wonder of the stories. Who made it, what they loved, and if they’ve felt everything I have ever felt. If it’s wearable items, jewelry especially, I wonder what they did while wearing said article. If they ever felt love while wearing it. If they ever did something that made them sad while wearing it. Where it has been, and it’s journey thus far traveled before reaching my hands. I’ve tried explaining this people before, and they just don’t understand it. They say they prefer new things that are theirs to start with, or that they don’t understand who outdated things are special. Or sometimes, after I gleefully present a new find or treasured artifact to someone, the more polite one’s will utter a “That’s so cool!” in a light voice. I’m always searching for someone who understands.
Everything has been designed, through God’s hands or by the hands of beings he created, so how could we Not appreciate the general magnificence of this life?