I think we can all relate to the feeling of not wanting a good time or period in our lives to come to an end. However, it hasn't been very often, over the years, that I've actually found myself trying to dig my fingernails into time in a futile effort to keep it from slipping away, every day, like it does, all because I dreaded the feeling of knowing that, with each passing day, I was traveling farther and farther away from so many good times I had in the past. Nowadays, though, it seems as though that's what I find myself doing. Constantly.
The past eight months have gone by like a blur. With that, I'm slowly getting used to the idea that being an adult means not having enough time to do, well, anything. Let alone enjoy any of it. I can only hope that with the passing of a little more time I'll begin to feel more like a participating member of the world again.
Twelve years ago this month, I was a kid working a short-lived blue-collar gig on the Brooklyn Bridge. Wearing an orange jumpsuit and hardhat every day, running back and forth on the Bridge's narrow catwalk a hundred or so times a day like some sort of frantic squirrel on a telephone wire. Looking back, it was a pretty fitting representation of my life at the time. I had absolutely no idea where I was going.
