Time Passes...
A new day, a new Month, a new Year: another day, Month, Year has passed. I don't know about you, but 2005 sounds like something out of Buck Rogers to me: where are our hover cars? Or at least our hover skate-boards? The passing of time got me thinking about something Brian said, well actually something I thought reminded me of something he said, about how the "you" of today is completely different from that of last year, or Ten years ago, in the latter case there's not even any cells in our bodies which are the same. Well, at what point did the old "you" die? I think we die every day, or every night we go to sleep: at least we die a little bit. And what is actually "you" gets something added for that which is taken away- who knows what is added and what is taken away, each day, Month and Year. Will something be added when that final taking away comes? I was thinking, whilst jogging today (always good thinking time!) of the little I could remember about my Father, who died when I was Ten.
I will soon be the same age he was when he died.
I was thinking that I couldn't remember much about him at all, like there's a blank in my head: I remember walking into my Mum and Dad's bedroom in our old house, I remember where the bed was, and recently I remembered there was a brown clock on the bedside table: I can see it clearly, with it's red button to stop the alarm ringing on the back. I remember that alarm ringing, but not a word my Father ever said do I remember, perhaps this is why I blog: for Joni? I was thinking that if I could go back to that room, I wouldn't know my Father, because I'm not the person that stood in that room all those years ago. I wouldn't say it to her, but I think the same would hold true for my Mother.
If it could happen, the time machine meeting with my Dad, I'm sure it would be like the meeting I had with my best school-friend after not seeing him for Ten years (finding him on friends reunited): the difference between what my memory held-the moving pictures of him?-and what stood in front of me was so huge, it was basically a different film. We were both other people, so far from what we were that no "catching up" with each other as "old" friends was possible: it seemed strange to have to start again, so that's where we left it.
Change is the only constant of our lives: if we could meet ourselves as we were Ten years ago (on you reunited?) we would know this for sure, but the things that make "you" are making you every minute, and who can know what they are?
Each day becomes a box for a person we leave behind. Death is no stranger to "you".
I will soon be the same age he was when he died.
I was thinking that I couldn't remember much about him at all, like there's a blank in my head: I remember walking into my Mum and Dad's bedroom in our old house, I remember where the bed was, and recently I remembered there was a brown clock on the bedside table: I can see it clearly, with it's red button to stop the alarm ringing on the back. I remember that alarm ringing, but not a word my Father ever said do I remember, perhaps this is why I blog: for Joni? I was thinking that if I could go back to that room, I wouldn't know my Father, because I'm not the person that stood in that room all those years ago. I wouldn't say it to her, but I think the same would hold true for my Mother.
If it could happen, the time machine meeting with my Dad, I'm sure it would be like the meeting I had with my best school-friend after not seeing him for Ten years (finding him on friends reunited): the difference between what my memory held-the moving pictures of him?-and what stood in front of me was so huge, it was basically a different film. We were both other people, so far from what we were that no "catching up" with each other as "old" friends was possible: it seemed strange to have to start again, so that's where we left it.
Change is the only constant of our lives: if we could meet ourselves as we were Ten years ago (on you reunited?) we would know this for sure, but the things that make "you" are making you every minute, and who can know what they are?
Each day becomes a box for a person we leave behind. Death is no stranger to "you".
posted by John Doran-Armstrong at 1:47 PM
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