Time passes on, it is gone and yet it isn’t. I have spent the past 14 hours with my mind not escaping from a novel even as I slept. I am naked and it touches me and we are one, for the moment, like a strange memory spontaneously rejoining my conscious awareness.  My life, already, is a memory stretching back through chapters of time. The past dissolves the matter of “ifs” and relegates it to the “already done,” a book set into type, never again to be written, only edited by the constant means of recollection.

Kayley and I are done, it had to be done, the whole thing, the whole instance of childish, pure enthusiasm and love. My life as a Mormon is gone, a thing to be bemused or frustrated over, much like a good piece of biography. My life dissolves itself into biography with my constant writing.  My childhood melts away into the words that I give it and I see myself as maturing, ever moving forward away from the life that was mine but yesterday.

My friend whom I’ve found reason to share my not-so-curt thoughts and ramblings with has returned from an existence as lined sheets of paper and I find my mind invigorated by his physical presence. My classes, my professors inject me with enthusiasm; we imbue each other with each response, each lesson, each reading. The two together have changed me and the me lamenting over lost love is near-gone, save for the renewed sense of loneliness that is stronger than it was before. I allay it constantly with thoughts that begin with wonder and end in excitement and questions that come together to make my neurons fire with renewed vigor. I am alive; I am present.

Things have formed for me, a lifetime full of things. My mind touches insanity, runs its tendrilly fingers through its dry powder, contemplating what color it would give the face of my life if applied. A mask through which my enthusiasm may express itself. Questions to take up and forge a life out of.  A philosopher. A writer. Dare I be such things? Dare I attempt to be both, a philosopher first, and writer second? Life is construction, how can one come before the other? They are co-current.  Every understanding begins with the words we give it, every word begins with the understanding that conjures it. Can I make such creation my life? Dare I?

More aptly, how can I not? Anything other is not life to me.