I'm just passing through, temporary. Falling like leaves on a tree, running down a river of me.
History like its rings, a notch of time. Rock worn away, my body to fade. Limited growth, stunted I sway in the winds of my life and clouds of dismay.
Spinning around on a massive ball, stuck to the surface with no end to the fall, just passing through making my own pitfalls.
I fight the passing, eager to dig in. Entrenched at home, pretending to win. Not equiped for this mountain I reluctantly strap on, connecting my crampons of hope, maybe there is something out there of note.
I have gone, I have been, I was there, there's evidence to bare. My pictures, my words, my feelings I have shared.
Just passing through, only a number of heart beats, only so many people I can meet. Can't stop it from turning, can't stop myself yearning for more than social media updates as my friends distillate their successful journeys innate.
The stakes are really high but I choose not to think why, because its easier to dig in and pretend its all alright.
But its not alright!
I'm running out of time!
Our passing is limited, temporary, its true. Like all material things we are just passing through.