We love to make things and keep things.
We collect as much as we can,
as if to suggest a certainty
in the length we'll have to enjoy whatever it is.
A lot of bother
about a whole lot of nothing.
And then, like holes that creep inside a jar,
and wind escapes,
and rain seeps in,
we lose it. We always have.
We always will.
I used to watch the ocean for hours on end,
wondering what had been lost in the deep through so much time.
Things loved before they were lost,
things that were held on to,
things that amounted to nothing,
because they lost us too.
It's funny how hard we fight the storm.
I think sometimes,
and more often than not,
it'd feel better just to watch it pass in amusement.
In awe even.
It seems easier, that.
But we almost never do this in the beginning,
until the pointlessness of the fight hits
like a cold hard wind to the face.
Then we finally re-evaluate our priorities.
Mine are simple,
keep a handy bottle of Jack.
And when the time comes that the morning hides her face,
as it will without a doubt,
in the best of all possible worlds,
you could say that having fun
was how you went.