It's as if a photograph is the most valuable thing one can own;
That sepia tone, that time and date stamp,
What a friend,
What an ode to memories of a time long past,
A year ago today it went- ****!- Just. Like. That.
And just like that, you're back there with all your fears and trepidations
And slight ponderings on the habits of water snakes and devils' babies.

****! just like that you're brought back to the present,
Wondering about the future;
Will it all work out outside of this moment? Which like that one,
Is so perfect and complete, a puzzle not missing a piece or having a hair out of place,
Here, in this rose garden amongst garbage heaps of relative affluence.

****! you're gone away unto the Future,
A mystical, magical unfamiliar place... because there is not like here,
Where you are so sure of everything, and the complete certainty of infinite possibility
Canoodling with your youth cries out to you in exhilaration
And apathy
For your autumn years;
You know these city streets and ally walls and University halls,
You know these faces and those places and the box
Which you have built yourself out of recycled materials- opinions, quotes, and ideas
You're only borrowing,
Like a sweater with multi-coloured buttons from an old friend that you might just decide to keep,
Or give away to charity
If that happy interlude between lending and returning has long ago expired.

****! Here you are! Right now! This instant!
A vast infinite collection of empty spaces and visited places,  
Held by bonds no tighter than your weakest ties.
And all those times you said you were going to carpe diem,
You let it veni vidi vici you instead.
So, holding this photograph, I ask you now:
In the puff of smoke lit from the flash of the camera,
Is this the way you want to live, or is the meaning of alive simply to die?