There are ways we anchor ourselves to our past.
We connect to a bed, whether it is the daybed of our childhood or the nights spent in strange sheets during our terribly reckless and fun twenties.
We move from bed to bed, from room to room, from year to year, but we stay stay stay in the muck of what should have been forgotten.
We sleep on pillows of mud that emit dreams of days we wish to relive, days where we can now know the consequences and choose wisely. Days when we forget our skin and instead envelope the air that disappears as quickly as it appears.
You cannot see the air except for when you breathe.
We fill our lungs and plunge into a sea contaminated with lost friends found in lockets, wedding rings that fingers outgrew, peaches that grandma canned and no one ate, movie stubs, love letters filled with intensity and typos, a marble that holds a story known to so few, and a pack of Lucky Strikes never opened but kept as a sort of Talisman.
We try to dive, but we only surface. There is a lack down there in the dusty water. We begin to realize that it's the peaks we wish to see, not the depths.
We want to taste the peaches when they are ripe, not canned. We want to smoke every last Lucky Strike until we can step up to the plate of the present and hit a home run.
We want to run home.
We want to run until our legs give out and then we'll crawl. Our home is not the past. Our home is a stranger waiting to be met.
Don't let the heavy weight of the anchor keep you from drifting.