it’s hard to process that this will be my last year with you that you were alive . in one way, I couldn’t be more ready to leap out of the devastation and chaos of this year and into the shiny hope of 2026. and in another way, i keep looking thru the photo roll of this year… thinking how the 7 months i had left with you were barely enough. there aren’t nearly enough photos, voice notes, videos of you to satisfy – i want to claw myself back thru time to January and do everything differently. The grief and depression never seems to lift, but instead, stretches over time into different shapes .. its coloring my dancing, singing voice, & writing in new shades of wisdom and sadness. the only reprieve is to make more art . I’m bargaining now with the quickness of years passing by, and soon – decades . I want the freshness of these 2025 memories at the forefront of all our minds. I can’t afford to have anyone forget you . I don’t want you to become some faded photograph to my kids. Some relic of the past, their mouth ajar that someone could really be born in 1968. Laughing at the concept of “ancient” , “old people stuff” “old fashioned”. Maybe romanticizing it years later. I’ll think – Every moment in the past was a whole world, filled with all of the noise of that present moment. I look at “ancient” differently now. One day you and I – we’ll be ancient. They will not know Bollywood tapes in the car in 2004, sticky jalebi stuck between two thin sheets of white oiled up paper, of car-ride boredom, or your hair in a neatly fashioned bun above a camel Banana republic blazer, your accent that sweetened alll words. I will tell them you were the most beautiful girl in 1994, that your laughter was a room I’d like to enter again, that you knew all the practical things like how to use a sewing machine or thread an upper lip. It won’t mean much to them, until it’s too late. Until I’m slipping way and myself, ancient – and they too, will be pressing a tape recorder up against my lips, trying to preserve every last memory of me before it’s too late. life is a spiral , a loop, a cosmic trick . blink and it will be too late. nothing is ours to hold, not even our mothers
it’s hard to process that this will be my last year with you that you were alive . in one way, I couldn’t be more ready to leap out of the devastation and chaos of this year and into the shiny hope of 2026. and in another way, i keep looking thru the photo roll of this year… thinking how the 7 months i had left with you were barely enough. there aren’t nearly enough photos, voice notes, videos of you to satisfy – i want to claw myself back thru time to January and do everything differently. The grief and depression never seems to lift, but instead, stretches over time into different shapes .. its coloring my dancing, singing voice, & writing in new shades of wisdom and sadness. the only reprieve is to make more art . I’m bargaining now with the quickness of years passing by, and soon – decades . I want the freshness of these 2025 memories at the forefront of all our minds. I can’t afford to have anyone forget you . I don’t want you to become some faded photograph to my kids. Some relic of the past, their mouth ajar that someone could really be born in 1968. Laughing at the concept of “ancient” , “old people stuff” “old fashioned”. Maybe romanticizing it years later. I’ll think – Every moment in the past was a whole world, filled with all of the noise of that present moment. I look at “ancient” differently now. One day you and I – we’ll be ancient. They will not know Bollywood tapes in the car in 2004, sticky jalebi stuck between two thin sheets of white oiled up paper, of car-ride boredom, or your hair in a neatly fashioned bun above a camel Banana republic blazer, your accent that sweetened alll words. I will tell them you were the most beautiful girl in 1994, that your laughter was a room I’d like to enter again, that you knew all the practical things like how to use a sewing machine or thread an upper lip. It won’t mean much to them, until it’s too late. Until I’m slipping way and myself, ancient – and they too, will be pressing a tape recorder up against my lips, trying to preserve every last memory of me before it’s too late. life is a spiral , a loop, a cosmic trick . blink and it will be too late. nothing is ours to hold, not even our mothers
it’s hard to process that this will be my last year with you that you were alive . in one way, I couldn’t be more ready to leap out of the devastation and chaos of this year and into the shiny hope of 2026. and in another way, i keep looking thru the photo roll of this year… thinking how the 7 months i had left with you were barely enough. there aren’t nearly enough photos, voice notes, videos of you to satisfy – i want to claw myself back thru time to January and do everything differently. The grief and depression never seems to lift, but instead, stretches over time into different shapes .. its coloring my dancing, singing voice, & writing in new shades of wisdom and sadness. the only reprieve is to make more art . I’m bargaining now with the quickness of years passing by, and soon – decades . I want the freshness of these 2025 memories at the forefront of all our minds. I can’t afford to have anyone forget you . I don’t want you to become some faded photograph to my kids. Some relic of the past, their mouth ajar that someone could really be born in 1968. Laughing at the concept of “ancient” , “old people stuff” “old fashioned”. Maybe romanticizing it years later. I’ll think – Every moment in the past was a whole world, filled with all of the noise of that present moment. I look at “ancient” differently now. One day you and I – we’ll be ancient. They will not know Bollywood tapes in the car in 2004, sticky jalebi stuck between two thin sheets of white oiled up paper, of car-ride boredom, or your hair in a neatly fashioned bun above a camel Banana republic blazer, your accent that sweetened alll words. I will tell them you were the most beautiful girl in 1994, that your laughter was a room I’d like to enter again, that you knew all the practical things like how to use a sewing machine or thread an upper lip. It won’t mean much to them, until it’s too late. Until I’m slipping way and myself, ancient – and they too, will be pressing a tape recorder up against my lips, trying to preserve every last memory of me before it’s too late. life is a spiral , a loop, a cosmic trick . blink and it will be too late. nothing is ours to hold, not even our mothers
it’s hard to process that this will be my last year with you that you were alive . in one way, I couldn’t be more ready to leap out of the devastation and chaos of this year and into the shiny hope of 2026. and in another way, i keep looking thru the photo roll of this year… thinking how the 7 months i had left with you were barely enough. there aren’t nearly enough photos, voice notes, videos of you to satisfy – i want to claw myself back thru time to January and do everything differently. The grief and depression never seems to lift, but instead, stretches over time into different shapes .. its coloring my dancing, singing voice, & writing in new shades of wisdom and sadness. the only reprieve is to make more art . I’m bargaining now with the quickness of years passing by, and soon – decades . I want the freshness of these 2025 memories at the forefront of all our minds. I can’t afford to have anyone forget you . I don’t want you to become some faded photograph to my kids. Some relic of the past, their mouth ajar that someone could really be born in 1968. Laughing at the concept of “ancient” , “old people stuff” “old fashioned”. Maybe romanticizing it years later. I’ll think – Every moment in the past was a whole world, filled with all of the noise of that present moment. I look at “ancient” differently now. One day you and I – we’ll be ancient. They will not know Bollywood tapes in the car in 2004, sticky jalebi stuck between two thin sheets of white oiled up paper, of car-ride boredom, or your hair in a neatly fashioned bun above a camel Banana republic blazer, your accent that sweetened alll words. I will tell them you were the most beautiful girl in 1994, that your laughter was a room I’d like to enter again, that you knew all the practical things like how to use a sewing machine or thread an upper lip. It won’t mean much to them, until it’s too late. Until I’m slipping way and myself, ancient – and they too, will be pressing a tape recorder up against my lips, trying to preserve every last memory of me before it’s too late. life is a spiral , a loop, a cosmic trick . blink and it will be too late. nothing is ours to hold, not even our mothers
it’s hard to process that this will be my last year with you that you were alive . in one way, I couldn’t be more ready to leap out of the devastation and chaos of this year and into the shiny hope of 2026. and in another way, i keep looking thru the photo roll of this year… thinking how the 7 months i had left with you were barely enough. there aren’t nearly enough photos, voice notes, videos of you to satisfy – i want to claw myself back thru time to January and do everything differently. The grief and depression never seems to lift, but instead, stretches over time into different shapes .. its coloring my dancing, singing voice, & writing in new shades of wisdom and sadness. the only reprieve is to make more art . I’m bargaining now with the quickness of years passing by, and soon – decades . I want the freshness of these 2025 memories at the forefront of all our minds. I can’t afford to have anyone forget you . I don’t want you to become some faded photograph to my kids. Some relic of the past, their mouth ajar that someone could really be born in 1968. Laughing at the concept of “ancient” , “old people stuff” “old fashioned”. Maybe romanticizing it years later. I’ll think – Every moment in the past was a whole world, filled with all of the noise of that present moment. I look at “ancient” differently now. One day you and I – we’ll be ancient. They will not know Bollywood tapes in the car in 2004, sticky jalebi stuck between two thin sheets of white oiled up paper, of car-ride boredom, or your hair in a neatly fashioned bun above a camel Banana republic blazer, your accent that sweetened alll words. I will tell them you were the most beautiful girl in 1994, that your laughter was a room I’d like to enter again, that you knew all the practical things like how to use a sewing machine or thread an upper lip. It won’t mean much to them, until it’s too late. Until I’m slipping way and myself, ancient – and they too, will be pressing a tape recorder up against my lips, trying to preserve every last memory of me before it’s too late. life is a spiral , a loop, a cosmic trick . blink and it will be too late. nothing is ours to hold, not even our mothers
it’s hard to process that this will be my last year with you that you were alive . in one way, I couldn’t be more ready to leap out of the devastation and chaos of this year and into the shiny hope of 2026. and in another way, i keep looking thru the photo roll of this year… thinking how the 7 months i had left with you were barely enough. there aren’t nearly enough photos, voice notes, videos of you to satisfy – i want to claw myself back thru time to January and do everything differently. The grief and depression never seems to lift, but instead, stretches over time into different shapes .. its coloring my dancing, singing voice, & writing in new shades of wisdom and sadness. the only reprieve is to make more art . I’m bargaining now with the quickness of years passing by, and soon – decades . I want the freshness of these 2025 memories at the forefront of all our minds. I can’t afford to have anyone forget you . I don’t want you to become some faded photograph to my kids. Some relic of the past, their mouth ajar that someone could really be born in 1968. Laughing at the concept of “ancient” , “old people stuff” “old fashioned”. Maybe romanticizing it years later. I’ll think – Every moment in the past was a whole world, filled with all of the noise of that present moment. I look at “ancient” differently now. One day you and I – we’ll be ancient. They will not know Bollywood tapes in the car in 2004, sticky jalebi stuck between two thin sheets of white oiled up paper, of car-ride boredom, or your hair in a neatly fashioned bun above a camel Banana republic blazer, your accent that sweetened alll words. I will tell them you were the most beautiful girl in 1994, that your laughter was a room I’d like to enter again, that you knew all the practical things like how to use a sewing machine or thread an upper lip. It won’t mean much to them, until it’s too late. Until I’m slipping way and myself, ancient – and they too, will be pressing a tape recorder up against my lips, trying to preserve every last memory of me before it’s too late. life is a spiral , a loop, a cosmic trick . blink and it will be too late. nothing is ours to hold, not even our mothers
back in gods country with my baby😵💫😵💫⭐️⭐️⭐️😵💫😵💫🇯🇵🗾😀😀😀!!!!!!! @existentialcrisisboy
