Old

Something I wrote in my sketchbook about 5 years ago and recently rediscovered:

A time will come when I won't remember day to day occurrences; when details vivid to me now will dissipate in the wind like the leaves in this season; when all the things I cry about now, I will laugh about in the future; when all things so grave in my mind will seem like petty child's play and all that will be left will be a block of time in which I will say, "When I was your age..." but only remember patterns of change and random times of extreme joy, absurd pain, or seemingly unimportant seconds.