Isolations

Tonight, I got to experience life. I watched a movie with friends, spontaneously went to a party, and then climbed some buildings. Regardless of how tired or scared any of us were, or the fact that it is 30 degrees outside, we did it all. And it didn’t matter who suggested it or came up with the idea, because we did it together.

            Until I started that sentence, I didn’t know that’s the part that mattered to me. I was living in the moment, getting rust on my hands from the ladders, and taking pictures from rooftops. But now thinking about it, I realize the events that transpired wouldn’t have meant nearly as much if I had done them by myself or with people I didn’t care to be with.

            This is such a simple, obvious concept, but it’s one I forget sometimes, until I have time to reflect. And that’s what this is all about for me. I have an outlet to reflect on and look at what I’m feeling.

            I’ve spent a lot of time standing back and appreciating my surroundings while being surrounded. I try to close my eyes a second longer to cement the memory into my being— not just my brain. Out of all the experiences I have had the last nineteen and a half years, I remember just a few of them now, because I took the time to step back from the moment and commit to myself. I have just enough foresight to know I’ll want to remember it later, and so I take that one extra moment to imprint it onto myself.

            I can tell you the temperature, the swirling of lights, the texture, everything. I only have a few of them, though. Lots have started to fade and some blend together. It can be frustrating, but I’ve decided that when I need to know it, I will.

            Tonight I took the time to remember something else. I decided to remember the people: the adventurous climber who didn’t want to dance; the timid but exhilarated pharmacist; the scared but secretly bored planner; the veteran enthusiast; and the one who didn’t care about someone she should have.

            I decided to remember who we were in the moment. The stained glass around us made the memory beautiful, but the people made it worth absorbing. Nothing we do will ever be perfect. No moment will ever be captured accurately in words or pictures. So instead, I choose to isolate myself right in the middle of it. Everything stops for a moment and I’m completely engulfed by everything around me. I press the pause button, take in every aspect, and swallow it in my mind. I then press play and resume watching, dancing, and climbing and let my mind process and develop it, until it’s unfiltered, unadulterated, and undone.