When you were 4-years-old, we built a bridge. A cardboard, brick imprinted, sturdier-than-stone bridge. We wrecked it. We laughed.
For the next 16-years, our individual journeys rarely crossed, but there was always that bridge. That sturdier-than-stone bridge. A connection. It made us laugh.
Time. It’s a sluggish snail in the first two decades, for everyone. A languid, methodical crafting of character, bridging the insecurity of self-discovery with the blinding blur of assured reality. Pace: No question, at nearly 21, yours was accelerating.
You see Kasha, the remaining decades are but a blink. For me, that cardboard, brick imprinted, sturdier-than-stone bridge might has well have been built this morning. Our laughter is written in the lines on my face, every crows-foot scratching its way out with a smile. It’s permanent. It connects.
Cardboard bridges. They’re temporary. What we built is sturdier than stone. It makes me laugh.
Days: Bending time. Shaping character.
Haze: Frenzied fog. Life’s relentless blur.
Maze: Mirrored walls. Reflecting you. Projecting me.
Daze: Lost for now, but yet somehow, you’ve been set free.