Today I stopped on my run to stare at the movements of the water and the reflections of the rising sun.
Last night I was dipped and twirled and twisted on an almost empty dance floor to a hypnotic gypsy band.
The night before I ate poutine under the stars, on the steps of a grand old building. Speaking of life and love and spirituality with a handsome stranger.
Each moment in life must be cherished. In the minute. The second. Minute to moment. Moment to minute. Each moment is a great discovery. It gets under fingernails and builds up in my cushiony cuticles. Each moment is copied. Xeroxed. Transcribed. And filed away in the dusty archives of memory. The dusty archives being a grand old library located under my skull. Books for days of hand written notes and sketches. Lining the walls. Rickety gold ladders linking each shelf. A harmonica playing in the background as books and volumes of memories are shelved.
(Have I mentioned my love of the harmonica? Toe curling. Goose bumping. Batteries not included.)
An ever expanding library of memories.