I have been as guilty of it as anyone.
But much less so these days. Now the shadows are lengthening.
Because there is but one life. There is no heaven in which to smugly contemplate relentless eternity. There is no hell to somehow face greater suffering. There are no seventy-two virgins with legs spread wide. There is no reincarnation as a deer, or a fox, or someone somehow better.
There is only now.
The years which seemed to stretch out endlessly when we are soft and still to be moulded, constantly gather momentum. Like water rushing out of the basin. Like sand escaping the narrowing hourglass. Life is so short. Time is so precious.
And yet we waste it. We procrastinate. We dither. We make excuses. We pretend to be something we are not rather than act upon who we are. We pretend we are looking for perfection as if it really exists. We fear making mistakes and instead we do nothing. We hold ourselves back, saving our hearts, bodies, and souls for someday, some person, some event that may never be. Our days pass by with nothing to mark them but the calendar. We always think that there is still tomorrow …
I know I will eventually end my days regretting the women, the times, the joys (and even the sorrows) I did not have far more than I will regret those I had*.
I once told someone that Life is not a Rehearsal.
She did not listen.
But will you?
* I am certain this thought is stolen from elsewhere, so please do forgive the plagiarism.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/FadedRomantic
Another unearthing from my archive.
Art by William Oxer