How can I answer this, it is impossible to know, because I wasn’t paying enough attention to this on going show
I wish I had paid more attention when I was feeling content.
What was I doing?
What was I feeling? Believing?
How was I behaving?
Hell, what was I eating? How was I sleeping and who was I sleeping with?
I want to know, remember and recreate every single detail of past contentments, past joys, past triumphs, if only I’d paid more attention.
I wish I had paid more attention when I was vital and young
Where did that time go?
What had I planned to create?
What did I aspire to and who did I admire?
I see now how minutes stack like bricks one on top of the other to create structures out of habits and patterns and, and decades and cement bars
Maybe I’d recognize something useful in this time cage, if only I’d paid more attention
I wish I’d paid more attention when I was living out what inspired me
Instead of concentrating on all the things that tired me
And required me to perspire and pull energy from anywhere like a reluctant vampire
Inspiration is what freedom tastes like. It’s what makes liberation liberating and it makes the contents of moments matter even though they are formed out of the formlessness of atoms and thoughts. I’d love to be able to recreate it on demand, to live in it, bathe in it, drink from it, and I’d live there, soaking in it, minute by minute, if only I could remember exactly how I got there. How did I find inspiration or did it come hunting for me once? And now I’m just a trophy on a wall without even knowing I’ve been shot, drained, stuffed, groomed and now live all eternity decorating some hunter’s fire place, a deer head, forever caught in the headlights of my own failure.
I’d love to find inspiration again, if only I’d paid more attention.