Life is strange. Its wonder is often only apparent in the mirror of memory and in the turning of the pages of a photo album. We look and we smile. We didn’t know we were living our best days. Every day. At the time it just seemed like life, like another day.
Every day we spend seems like another ordinary day we must get through as best we can. Distracted, amused, occupied, tired, hungry, satisfied. Life. Always looking forward to the next moment, the next day. How was I supposed to know that these were the times of my life? And that in time their reality would slip away and leave an impression in the sand of my mind that is swiftly fading.
This is the most precious moment. This is the best day. This is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. This eternal present is always the most glorious day. It is the only day. And every day before was just as precious, and just as vanishing. That was your best day. And you were your best self. The most beautiful you ever were, the most handsome, the most witty and clever.
Even if you knew it was the best of days, you couldn’t look at it and be in it all at once, couldn’t keep it, couldn’t know what would be next. We store up these treasures, never able to do more than touch them, fingertips upon glass, as they recede into the liquid darkness of memory beyond the pane, like a passing storm. Such glowing moments that we lived. Never to live again. Never to know in what glory they will live next. Never to know that we are in our best days, in our glory under the sun. Every day, under the sun.
Making Nobody Happy 