Senses dull to the barrage of pleasure, but memories capture the gist. We all live in the moment, but to live in a moment is not to absorb it. Old wise ones ponder all, but relish in their past exploits in pure form. For all their memories cling to them like smoke from a campfire. As the dappled sun spills on the grey-haired soul who visits his glory days, Two lovers press against the fragrant green grass under a flimsy shield of woven yarn. As a young woman's hair spills across her admiring partner, she feels tethered and weighted. This anchoring is not an unwelcome limitation, but a means to retain an instance with so much. So much gravity. So much sensory input. So much love. That to not be held, or held onto, would mean to drift away from this moment. To not be able to capture it within their loving embrace, hidden by their crocheted colander. As two lovers’ hearts race in a competition only they can understand, they are one. We do not live in these moments. They do not live in these moments either.
