"it was okay. the moments we got to go stand in the sun and look out over the green as old people and the wealthy middle aged drove their golf balls for the love and improvement of their ability were some of the finest moments in reminder that the whole world is forever just moving on, and that we are simply caught up in those waves--though most of us, especially with the advent of casual social media usage would like to think ourselves a wave unto ourselves--but watching those people drive balls over a manicured lawn while the sun warmed the concrete and my black suit just reminded me that, at best, we are water, whipped into waves by the air currents of history and the shifting plates of time."
Sometimes, I know the first sentence is sufficient, but I still go on.
As a wave then I crash and leave a momentary mark on the sand (with whom I am in love remember?) recede and take some of it with me, only to bring it back in new form, and so on and so on. This isn't quite rebirth, it's more life and death.
See, even in this post.
I one day may see how much I used to speak and know why.
Back to Plotinus.
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