I'm fifteen and leaving my first concert with my best friend. My body is tingling. I am five, swimming in the public pool for my dog tags, with people cheering me on. I'm twenty-five, holding the person I love in my arms. We are a sum of defining moments, perfect in their simplicity, magnificent in their complexity.
The smallest things often end up holding the most meaning. Its not the large 100-person house party that holds significance, but rather, the intimate gathering occurring spontaneously on the night of the brief, great black out. The large, planned out residence formal pales in comparison to the first day of snow, when we took the screen out of the window, and sang Christmas carols.
We are a sum of the moments of our lives, as they reflect our values, desires, sources of pleasure. We choose what has relevance based on our character:
Fifteen years old, clearing the table with my best friend. Under our plates are two tickets to silverchair, which my parents have hidden there. I'm twenty-two, sitting by my window, crying after making the Dean's list. I'm seven, playing mini-golf with my Papa. I'm ten, lying on my back watching the Northern Lights dance across the sky at the cottage. I'm walking across a stage, twenty-three, being handed my degree.
I am the moments of my life, magnificent, and insignificant, summarized and memorized and often forgotten.
I am three, riding on my Daddy's shoulders at the zoo. I'm 23, turning back to see my parents watching me walk through airport security. I see them cry. I am 19 saying goodbye to my sister, not saying a word. I'm 20, leaving a newfound sister, weeping just the same. I am 23, crying on the floor with my dog, preparing to leave my life, and all I know, behind.
I am forever, staring at the stars, on the end of the dock, in the Austrian sky, in the Korean mountains, in Ottawa, in Palmerston. I am the sum of the moments I have lived, a sum of the people I have loved, of the places I've been and the skies I have seen.
I am the moments of my life, in summary.
The smallest things often end up holding the most meaning. Its not the large 100-person house party that holds significance, but rather, the intimate gathering occurring spontaneously on the night of the brief, great black out. The large, planned out residence formal pales in comparison to the first day of snow, when we took the screen out of the window, and sang Christmas carols.
We are a sum of the moments of our lives, as they reflect our values, desires, sources of pleasure. We choose what has relevance based on our character:
Fifteen years old, clearing the table with my best friend. Under our plates are two tickets to silverchair, which my parents have hidden there. I'm twenty-two, sitting by my window, crying after making the Dean's list. I'm seven, playing mini-golf with my Papa. I'm ten, lying on my back watching the Northern Lights dance across the sky at the cottage. I'm walking across a stage, twenty-three, being handed my degree.
I am the moments of my life, magnificent, and insignificant, summarized and memorized and often forgotten.
I am three, riding on my Daddy's shoulders at the zoo. I'm 23, turning back to see my parents watching me walk through airport security. I see them cry. I am 19 saying goodbye to my sister, not saying a word. I'm 20, leaving a newfound sister, weeping just the same. I am 23, crying on the floor with my dog, preparing to leave my life, and all I know, behind.
I am forever, staring at the stars, on the end of the dock, in the Austrian sky, in the Korean mountains, in Ottawa, in Palmerston. I am the sum of the moments I have lived, a sum of the people I have loved, of the places I've been and the skies I have seen.
I am the moments of my life, in summary.
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