Secret Passage

I always imagined this hidden cave that went deep into nowhere. Like a portal. And at the end of this cave their was a room filled with cloth-bound books, tomes really, and the lettering was all in cursive and ink and the room was lit by wax candles. And all the posses of the past couldn't find this place nor could the falconer's of the future tame it's wild hope.

And in the books were memories so vivid and dreams long kept. And if I kept my eyes on those pages and kept a focus on those words I couldn't lose anything. I wouldn't feel sorrow, I wouldn't write laments, I couldn't miss anyone.

But that place isn't real.

And when I see an old friend, even old as in I haven't seen them in a few months, and I see the change in their face and hair and dress and manner. I become very sad. Because one day I will be in there life no more, and when they see me they won't run up and hug me or shake my hand, if they acknowledge me at all. Not because they are snobs or apathetic, because as time passes so does circumstance from one cache of allowances to the next.

Because people do eventually get a driver's liscence, and graduate, and get jobs and spouses and they move away and they die. These are the things that I fear because they require an all too often dull and lifeless exeunt of that character from my stage that I so loved sharing with them.

Part of me hates choosing favourites. I don't want a favourite. I want a community and I want to love every person in it and respect their oddities and their niche in the great social habitat. I don't want them to have favourites either, but I know they eventually will as this is part of life. And it isn't wrong I don't suppose.

The passage of time is a secret one. It does it's work and before we know it we are too deep in to retreat. We all make the same mistake.

I think it's funny how I hardly ever think of my sense of smell in the same way I register sights and sounds and tangible touch (perhaps the only sense less noticeable than scent is taste). But, whenever I remember I always have this overcoming sensation of what seems like a sort of smell. Memory has a pleasing aroma. Nostalgia is what is smells like.

When I think about Heaven, as I sometimes do, one of the biggest beauties I think of is the fact that we will all be together and I think we will all feel in love and we won't have any favourites, but we'll all enjoy each other and every moment will be better than the last and the Throne of God will be the reason.

And there won't be any real need for memory because it's all there and it's all going to stay there and we won't have to see all we've missed in a friend's face and we will never again have to say goodbye.

And that's all the hope I have.

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