A cotton candy analogy

A Cotton Candy analogy

Thank you for giving me a place to put my thoughts other than a dusty bookshelf. I am old now, scuffed, with gold letters cracking and falling off the book of my life. Will my story turn to dust and settle among the others into a heap at the bottom of the book case? Or will someone bring me immortality by reading what is written on these pages?

I have been wounded at times by life; but most of my wounds are healed, because the older I get the more I realize the very few things that really matter.

What flashes to my mind is an image of a small child, not yet three sitting on a bus across from me. His wide blue eyes accept me for the man I really am. His face blossoms into a beautiful innocent smile. I wonder, was I ever like that, before wounds and scars hid my innocence and narrowed my vision?

I have discovered that a part of me is alive and well deep inside my soul. It can be brought out to stand any inspection, by anyone, at any time. I am what I am. I have the sum total of the intersections of my life to thank for it.

When my life intersects with another, I think of cotton candy on a paper cone. Only we are the cones with a big ball of sticky fluff surrounding us. As we touch other people’s lives we stick. That is, part of you sticks to me, and part of me sticks to you; no matter how short the duration of our connection. We shape each other.

For example I can cast a simple smile at an old man waiting for his bus ride to the end. In my heart I want him to understand his life is not over until he lets it go. I promise that I will remember his face in my dreams and in my writing. Perhaps I can help postpone his ride long enough for him to learn there is someone who cares..

Others can give us strength, and we can hand it back multiplied with unconditional love as a gift from an as yet unrecognized friend.

Please forgive a rambling old man. Writing is how I make myself immortal. Not with words sitting in a gold-leaf leather-bound original book gathering dust on a shelf, but the words dwelling in the hearts and minds of those with whom I have the honor of sharing. Perhaps a time will come when a few words, maybe even a complete thought I’ve had, will be remembered by someone who read it. That is the only immortality I truly understand.

Behind us on the road we leave our footprints in the dust of life and little bits of our cotton candy stuck to all the people’s lives we touched along our way, that is what truly tells our story.

D Moarzjasac