I want to make more memorable moments
And recall them forever with fondness.
I want to be mired in reminiscence.
It is fine to dwell in the presence
Of simple ordinary moments
And think of nothing else.
But I want the extraordinary,
The remarkable, the memorable,
Something I might write in a memoir.
Such things seem so rare, but why?
Why can’t my life be an adventure?
I don’t see why not, and it’s worth trying.
Time is of the essence of life.
Life’s hourglass is always pouring out
Whether I find the courage or not.
But I also enjoy the slow moments
When the pouring sand seems endless
And the soft sound is like a lullaby.
Those moments can remain, I say.
However, I feel a greater desire now
To see the world in the grains of sand.
Not by a great effort of meditation,
But by the greater effort of action.
Savoring swiftness, rather than stillness.
However, is that not what killed young Icarus?
Is it not what leads to the untimely death
Of far too many promising youths?
Well, if I become Icarus, so be it.
Icarus escaped the dark labyrinth
And achieved the miracle of flight.
If only he had heeded his father’s warning
He could have flown long over the ocean
And found the far shore, and come home.
I intend to harken to the voice of the Father.
He who built my wings, who liberated me.
I intend to fly far with him, and fly home.
But after all, what comfort is a home
To those who never embark for the skies?
What stories begin with staying at home?
I want stories of heroism and romance
To fill invisible volumes inside me.
My own stories, not those of libraries.
I want to go out of my family’s tent,
Go to the land that will be shown to me,
Even meeting disaster along the way.
I believe that if I seek, I shall find.
And if I knock, the door will open to me.
What do I seek? The whole world!
The door that opens to the world
Is my own, I don’t need to knock!
Yet that door is the one I keep locked.