I recall that this particular Sunday, hit harder than other Sunday's, that the moment of recognition that the day had to end, would be lost somewhere between the bookend of the evenings sleep and the following weekend. I might recall the next Sunday of this particular moment, or look back to this photo as a reminder of that transient feeling of wading into the streaming flow of time, held afloat on the back of another day of the week. That we all feel this envy of ourselves tranposed upon the ideal of the day, is less comforting and more alarming, that we don't do more to create these moments in the majority of hours that make up our actual week. I close my eyes to envision this lighthouse, caught in the haze of my subconscious fog, and dwindling in the distance, the day has finally given us it's beauty just a few moments before it takes it away. I wake each morning, and in a sort of karmic jest, drive the half a block to the Sound's edge, and glance across the water to this lighthouse, stop every so often in these morning strolls, and snap off a picture of the same lighthouse, only just out of true reach.
Where do I stand? Now, days out from New Years, on the cusp of the entry into my 31st year; needing a thesis; hoping for answers to questions I have already forgotten the likes of by the time I've gotten to the end of this sentence. Clearly, having a point or meaning is valuable to me at this point. But why when I am so apt to consecrate the process, do I stammer, stumble, shutter and slip. I walked blocks of Manhattan on Saturday, knowing, as I meandered the street blocks back to my temporary abode, that these moments, and the warmth of the late December weather, were fleeting at best; less tangible objects to be cradled beneath my arms, to relative obscurity to those around me, nestled deep in my chest maintaining some grasp on them, like holding one's breath to the point of...I dig in to these thoughts much deeper now, realizing even my skin is slinking itself off daily, from lips, from scalp, hands, palms, knees; at which point am I shed of my next me, is my anaconda shell