Colors in the Wind

When I look back at my life, I wonder how much different it is from what I perceived it to be. Things that I took for granted, like carer, future, friends, and family, seem to be as mutable as sand is to a child building a castle or water is as it cascades from a rickety tin roof. Perhaps it is simply my old age, but slowly I have come to realize that my level of control, and by extension all others, is simply not as deep or as complete as I wish it was. However, in tandem, I have realized that my degree of influence is probably higher than I wish it to be, illuminating my all-or-nothing viewpoint on personal relationships. Either way, these past few weeks have been full of revelations showcasing that while I feel old, I am still very young as well.

So why the self-expressive post from a writer who claims to love objectivity? I suppose there are certain philosophical concepts that can only be expressed emotionally and personally; the passage of time, for example. The mutability of the future. The capacity for all of us to change for the better, or change for the worse.

Like watercolors trailing off into the spiral of a drain, our plans often become discarded and fade away into a swirl of emotion. Sometimes, we might be disappointed at seeing our masterpiece become wrecked so easily and other times, we might be gratified at the change that pushes us off and away from our native lands. One central conflict all of us encounter throughout lives is this concept of control over time, over events that are far larger than us. It is no surprise that whenever people feel pressured, they exert control over objects in their proximity in a psychological algebraic equation. But is this all we can do? Is there some other way of dealing with the aftermath of a watercolor whirlpool other than painting a new picture as soon as possible?

We are all slaves to time and perhaps, we should simply accept it. There are things in the world that we cannot control and certainly, things we believe we control but in reality do not. Perhaps by stepping back from the portraits we paint, form the ideas we have of the future, we can more effectively deal with the passage of time. Sure, commitment to an ideal is well, ideal (pun intended) but the ability to be flexibility is even moreso. Paradoxically, in order to be able to discard plans, ideas, lifestyles we have grown accustomed to takes either a legendary emotional tolerance or simply put, less initial investment.

Yet in some ways, there is a beauty to time's ravages. The idea that everything we have done and will do can easily be swept away so callously, that carefully groomed flowers blossom only to have their petals scattered in the breeze, that our lives are somehow shaped to by things greater than what we are is terrifying but great. Though difficult to see, it is this beauty that I take hold of, gazing at the colors in the wind.

Today is sunny, but I'm contemplative in my solitude. Hence, I am lazy.

Cheers.