Everything is so Damned Fleeting

There comes a time in every person's life when they realize that every piece of advice their parents ever gave them was correct.  Well, perhaps not every piece, but that vast majority.  I typically recognize one to two things every three months or so that causes the thought bubble above my head to fill with the illustration of a light bulb; call it an "Aha" moment.  The most recent aha moment came when I was driving home from work today. 

Anyone that knows me well knows that snow is my absolute most favorite thing in the world.  I'm like a kid on Christmas when the weatherman mentions the S word.  On Monday when I woke up and saw the weather forecast online, I proceeded to spend the rest of my MLK holiday tracking the storm.  I even woke up at 4 AM to look out the window and see it snowing, and had trouble going back to sleep I was so excited.

As soon as dawn broke I was outside running around in it, taking pictures of every snow-covered bush and tree, and of course Chloe the Siberian Husky.  I love snow that much.  Now fast forward two days later.  The only snow that remained this evening was in shadowy patches, like little islands of frozen wonder.  And that's when it hit me: Everything is so damned fleeting.  The thing I love most in the world stopped by to see me for less than 48 hours.  It's so wondrous, yet so frustrating at the same time. 

I went to college, barely had time to enjoy it, blinked, and it was over.  I blinked again and I was twenty-seven years old with little direction in life.  I have no responsibilities outside of my job.  No excitement.  Nothing to look forward to. i get up at the same time every morning, go to work, come home, eat, and go to bed so that I can do it again the next day.  Wash, rinse, repeat.   And I'm scared that the next time I blink I'm going to wake up with tubes coming out of every orifice and machines flashing every vital sign on flat panel monitors, with doctors and nurses huddled around me jotting notes on pads in drab manila folders. And I'm afraid when that moment comes, that I'll realize I didn't do a damned thing worth mentioning. 

I want to move to Carmel-by-the-sea, California and pen the great American novel.  I visited Carmel a couple of years ago with my father, who grew up literally just a couple of miles from Carmel beach, and it has been calling to me ever since.  A small coastal community begun by a gathering of artists, Carmel is both historic and awe inspiring.  And of course it's expensive as well.  I'd need some sort of job, somewhere to live, and a few other things, but I think I could do it.  I've found the majority of my inspiration for writing and creativity in my alone time (and trust me, alone time is something I have a lot of).  It's a catch 22 of sorts.  I like being alone because it allows me to write and consider my next subplot or protagonist, but I hate being alone because, well, it's lonely.  I'm finding more and more every day that pain is necessary for creativity.  The greatest writers and artists created their best works during times of great pain and trouble.  Poe, Hemmingway, Van Gogh, et. al were different; even a little bit crazy.  But they were genius at the same time.  I just hope I don't have to cut off my ear to create something people want to absorb into their consciousness.

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