This is a truth, so sad and beautiful, that some days it almost kills me: You and me and all of us will miss almost everything in this world.
When I was a child, I felt like time was endless. Days were these undiscovered spaces. I was an adventurer. Freedom lurking in every corner. Just me and the moment. Anything could happen.
When I was a teenager, I felt like time was a torture. Dragging me into adulthood on the dizzy road of unconsciousness, like a tractor going way too slow. There was nothing to make the time worth while, except maybe for music.
When I was in my early twenties, a sudden hunger for life kicked in. I traveled the world, skipped sleep for books and endless talks with bright people. I read everything and more. All the stories and theories and biographies and articles and essays and plays and novels and blogs and movies and podcasts and series and music and recipes and languages and tango-steps and bodies and drinking-nights with strangers and dinner-parties with friends. Time seemed like a capsule full of energy, soaring in space. Never-ending. Never-landing.
In the last years I became aware that there is not enough time for it all. In fact: I will miss almost everything. How many more books will I be able to read? A few thousand, if I’m lucky. The staple beside my bed will grow tirelessly, until my house is made of books. Not only will I miss all those things, I miss them already.
Yet, I can see the beauty in it. To live means to miss out. To decide for something and against most other things. The possibilities are endless but the choices are scarce. Pick what you like most, spend your time wisely. You will miss almost everything, but you will have made the best of it.