Today is today and tomorrow is tomorrow—quite fittingly here and there.
When I was a child, I thought it would be forever until I could touch the top of the doorframe. When I was a child, I thought I would be young forever, and ever, and ever. I felt it; I thought it. I knew death, the end of the line; yet, that was far away. I felt, I would never reach it. There was so much time.
Even then, the smell of spring was strong to me. Summer as well—there was grass and air and laughter. As I grew older, nostalgia came stronger, and one day, like everyone else, I realized I was old—young, but old.
Time ticks away very, very fast; the old man or woman I may be someday knows—the old man, who wanted to play the drums, to swim twenty miles and thought he would do it tomorrow, that there was a tomorrow, only to find one tomorrow wrought with a glimpse in the mirror, perhaps a crack in the glass—hair that has gone gray. And then there is the thought—memento mori.
What agony, what regrets wrack the old man at sea, or the old woman with her book?—what have they missed, what have they neglected?
Time goes by. I want to do this, so I will do it now. There is no time, because it is so fast. Geosmin is the scent that reminds me, the chemical that releases the smell of spring. Not so long ago, I was this age, and I did this, and I could have done that. I regret now, and perhaps this is why the burning sensation reaches my eyes, as if the ocean is trying to settle there. And through my throat, burning ashes reach my mouth, and I swallow again and again, for I am frustrated—I realize that.
I want to do this. I want it, I want it, and I think I need it as well. The battle is today, after all—why fight tomorrow?—why not today?—when will tomorrow become today, when will this be done? The rosebuds are yet to be plucked, before they wither or flourish, when I can no longer have them. The blood drips through my fingers, because the thorns pierce them, but this was bound to happen anyway—why wait? Nothing will fetter what will come—what will come will come, and time and the universe will tick away without ticking; why not accept it, because there is little else to do? Life shrugs, life walks by.
So I will do this. I do this now; I work, I play, I pluck my rosebuds with a smile, for they tell us—"gather your rosebuds while ye may." I do this, and it is not so bad, or it is horrible, but no pain is unbearable, so I take this, and I enjoy this; I am doing this, and soon it will be done; living is now. Then someday, when I am the old man at the sea, or the old woman reading her book, I will sit and smile, and be content as I wait. I will not think—I will not think that I should have done this, I should have done that; I wish I did this, I wish I bore that. Geosmin will release its strange spring scent, and nostalgia will be sweet like metal.
What will there be to regret then?