Little eras

Our worlds end with the swift final word of a good book and the final look of a good tv show. Little eras that rise out of the ground like saplings and grow to shelter us under sturdy and strong branches. Their roots grow around us like an exoskeleton, caressing us with their familiar tendrils. By the time it’s over, whole parts of ourselves have intertwined with this fleeting harvest. We don’t know what to do when winter comes.

We latch so profusely onto these little moments that we have. We feel them as they tug out of our struggling arms. We call after them as they pass us by. Every little part of our lives, precious in all regards. They’re celebrated with fanfare, savored, mourned.

Perhaps that’s one truly admirable thing about our nature. We suck on small hours. We allow them to melt in our mouths. We enjoy every little bit of what’s in front of us. We pick a moment clean. We delight in them with such gusto, perhaps this was the most delicious yet. And once they’re gone, we never stop craving them. Call humanity whatever you like, but we know how to nurse a good mouth watering moment.

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