I can’t remember who told me, but I distinctly remember being told that memory, that time, is like a river. I was told that the flow of life is like a wide and flowing rush of water that sweeps us left and right, towards some destination we can’t name. More and more, the temporariness of life and the singular nature of each and every moment have troubled me recently. The wonderful nights I’ve spent with my friends will each only happen once, and then I can never get them back, except by remembering them. But memory is always foggy, and confined to simple factual truths or remnants of certain auras or feelings, but no memory can encompass the totality of any true blissful moment. At the same time, however, how can we truly grasp a moment as it flows by us, as we push further down the river? What does ‘grasping’ a moment mean, beyond being conscious of the enjoyment one is feeling or the way a scene has unfolded before oneself? And, most importantly, if we acknowledge and analyze the crystalline perfection of one pure joyous unself-conscious instant, will it fade or diminish? There’s just something so elusive and intangible about the whole experience of time and life, as if I want to take the whole world and shove it into myself; the more I think about this, the more existence likens itself to some great waterfall, like the Eastern concept of Samsara (see picture). It seems that all of life is one long quest to find out which is bigger: the universe or the space inside our minds.





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