October 7, 2012

nothing lasts forever

My eight year old cousin asked me one day to not grow up.


A few years ago, when Tumblr was my inspiration space, I came across this text post that read: "Remember when one of the only things we used to cry about were the wounds on our knees?" And it hit me pretty hard. Wow, I told myself. I miss being a lot younger. You know, how everything else in the world besides cookies didn't matter?

It's stupefyingly awful, actually - the fact that nothing lasts forever. This only place that I can call my home - the way the cracks on bathroom tiles curve, or the way the paint on our roof slowly starts to lose its color- won't last forever. The recipe to my all time favorite cinnamon cookies won't last forever - neither will those cookies in the jar. And this "youth"? This, somehow, short amount of time that I have left before I graduate high school, and sooner or later graduate college - it won't last forever. And honestly? It's kinda sad.

I've thought about this almost a hundred of times - what does an old man or woman feel when they see kids? I mean, I'm practically still a kid, I run after Ice Cream carts that roam the streets, I open the window of our car and stick my head out, allowing the wind to graze through my bouncy hair. I still design my own pizzas, once in a while I climb trees. I brag my tennis skills to my younger cousins who can merely hit the ball, I host running events with my friends - I can't help it, I am a kid. 

But how does it feel - for my grandma, who's almost eighty years old, to look at me running, jumping and being so lively? Does jealousy continuously sting? Does her head and heart start to ache as she (most probably) has some vague memories of her childhood?

Source (Tumblr) 
Remind me to check back at this post about 80 years from now if I get to make it, but I think I'd cry. Really, 101% honestly. The pain will continuously throb on my heart - how it's over. My youth. Will I even remember this blog? Will I remember this house - the cracks on the bathroom tiles, that cinnamon recipe of mine - my freshman year, my birthday - anything? 

This is why I take photographs. I take photos to remember. To look back. Once a month, I go through my whole hard drive, looking at photos from birthdays, from occasions, from everyday life in school to huge events in hotels and such. When I take a photo, I stop time. It's like a single moment, frozen for as long as we can think.

Nothing lasts forever, indeed. People will leave, places will be brought down and even memories will slowly fade. It's stupefyingly awful, but that's how it is. And I'll kinda have to accept that.