Day 52

Style: Hot Flow
Teacher: Ian Fraser
Studio: Rama Lotus

A quarter of a century old. Today is my birthday. I guess that means it's my twenty-fifth lap around the Sun. It feels like it's been absurdly brief but also incalculably long. I've seen twenty-five first days of Spring, twenty-five Christmas Eves. I have a collection of misplaced abstract memories, echoes of people and places, disorganized fragments of storyline and context. The passage of time is perplexing. In fact, I've always found the concept of time to be alien, hard to relate to. It's a strange thing. You remain inherently the same inside, but outside you age and decompose and fall apart. You're an hourglass with descending sand. Or are you?

Turning twenty-five while simultaneously having a sick grandfather close to the end of his journey, I'm finding myself in a very reflective state. The fragility and brevity of individual human lives are remarkable. Someday I too will be in my last few moments, within reach of my last breath, looking back over my accumulated time. It'll be a day just like today. It's hard to make sense of things. Maybe you can't, maybe you can. For tonight, I'll let it be. No need for existential melodrama to ruin the evening. Here I am, breathing. I don't really need anything else. Time does stand still once in a while, and I'm going to soak up the moment. If it all ended tomorrow I'd die thoroughly satisfied.

Walking in through my front door after dinner and drinks at Play, fifteen close friends jump out of the woodwork, initiating an impromptu surprise party. I'm being told I no longer work at 6 am tomorrow morning. Apparently they've called my boss and arranged a day off. The unexpected spontaneity of the situation throws my world momentarily off-kilter, but soon I've adjusted to the situation and relaxed into my new reality. Before I float off into the joy and comfort of good friends, moments that are about to become part of my amalgamated past, I'm reminded of words spoken by a wise young man, and I understand. Happiness is real when shared.


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