When the world was young

There was a time when the world was new.  I am astonished and frightened at how easily time seems to slip through the cracks in my fingers, without me even realizing that a day has passed.  Life seems like nothing more than a memory and memories are so intangible. I am enveloped in a daydream, sleepwalking through life, neither awake or sleeping.  What happens to time after it passes? I cling to the few tangible representations of those times, as if they will prevent my ever-degrading memories from fading to death. The tattoos cut into my skin seem strange, seeing as their inscription is now only a fading memory in my failing mind.  Why is there so much comfort in retrospection, even though what has passed will never be grasped again?





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