The bright moments of the past do not die
They do not lie idly in the earth, buried beneath unpassable tombs
Their beauty does not fester or languish
Their times come again
They are reborn, are the bright things that come
Those jewels dug up by autonomous spades
They do not die, they are reborn
Our excitement like an old friend reunited
Do not mourn the past, it did not fall
Left to rot, mummified in worms
As a child when we picked it up, as an adult when we carry it
Those moments live on with us
Again
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 2:21 PM UTC
The bright moments of the past do not die
They do not lie idly in the earth, buried beneath unpassable tombs
Their beauty does not fester or languish
Their times come again
They are reborn, are the bright things that come
Those jewels dug up by autonomous spades
They do not die, they are reborn
Our excitement like an old friend reunited
Do not mourn the past, it did not fall
Left to rot, mummified in worms
As a child when we picked it up, as an adult when we carry it
Those moments live on with us
Again
I was walking about old haunts and thinking of all the memories made within them. I felt really melancholy that those moments had gone and would never come again. Then I realised that those moments are not gone, not dead, but rather are carried within us. I passed a dark hole in the woods I had found as a kid and had felt sure that it was full of fairies and gnomes. I realised that I still feel that now every time I discover holes in the woods that seem dark and mysterious, and feel that same excitement from my youth. What we picked up as children, we carry as adults, the past does not die, but lives with us.
