Spend enough time dwelling upon them, the nature of some self-held beliefs can grow fickle in seemingly infinite ways. Malleable upon enough introspection. With relative ease a way can be contemplated away from the singular sentient perspective, crafted in the void of individuality.

Or so says the sticky note I had scribbled upon a few hours ago, light adhesive upon the kitchen table, stained in the glow of the final ferocious fading of the solar today before it capsized behind the horizon.

I wonder what was in my mind then, as I can no longer distinctly recall. Not that the memory might have been reliable even if clear. But I do not know that I am of any belief so specific. Certainly not as much as many other humanoids. Or even a former form of self. Devout is a word that doesn’t seem applicable in my consciousness. Though, I suppose there are a few synonyms that I attach to aspects of my existence.

But in the way I see a word such as devout, I sense a blindness. In memory I know I have held such possession of the word. Even though reverie may lack in accountability, there is certainty from my perspective that a more dogmatic approach has been applied in my previous living towards a short list of varied things. Religion. Romance. Recognition. At different times and on occasion overlapping, the view of my own neurology seemed sharpened upon specified outlines and objectives. Something that as I click away in this moment, I do not feel the urge to claim.

That is not to proclaim a lack of dedication. It is more a relinquishment of rigidness. The abandonment of attention gone all awry in proportion.

Still, whatever stability that may bring, I cannot help but wonder whether my discipline for existence’s particulars lacks where it once had flourish. Tainted by nostalgia, such thought experiments are doomed to inadmissibility by any proper scientific standards. But bards and bored poets need not adhere. Convince the room of magic, you can bring it to existence, whether ‘tis some sweet lie or not.

I sit upon the ashes of partially squandered glory days, or so the culture claims as zeitgeist. The timelines of others protruding so often in the societal psyche seem to be aligned with a type of prodigy. Though, I know this to be untrue, as likely so do you- it still echoes in our mythos more than the slow burn. Go fast, take chances. Die young and live forever, etc. Rapid conflagration makes for a tantalizing tale, for sure. Or so I used to believe.

Patience seems more a virtue than used to be, while gusto seems diminished. Not entirely abstained, and hopefully never will be. But the steam of little thought upon conviction no longer holds the reigns as was so in the long-gone days. And as convincing the conundrum of falling behind the calculations may be, it serves me less purpose than it did yesterday. And likely less tomorrow. And the best I can conjure each day is to at least inch away from what was and pull towards what is still to be. The past selves’ dried up possibilities matter little in truth. Those paths were gone before I had even registered them as passed. But to be open and adaptive to what is may just be the key to navigating the what will be.

If any of us could be capable.

If any of this even matters at all.

I still seem to think it does, for whatever that might be worth.

Probably nothing, in the long run. But I’m just a short-timer here anyway. Just walking my way to being some old timer, before fading away.

Just like the kid of yesterday, fails to exist today.