When I was younger than I am today, I felt as if the future was vague, frightening, and infinite. It was like looking out at a great expanse of ocean from the shore at night, the possibilities seemed endless yet so overwhelming.
I could take my time with reaching my goals, they were out there floating in the waters. I would just content myself making sand castles on the shore.
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As a child at family get togethers, relatives and family friends would remark on how cute I was and ask, "How old are you?"
Now, they remark on how tall I've become and ask, "How much do you make a year?"
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I find myself swimming now and I can make out the other side. I didn't see it at first, but it has always been there. It's a darkness that is deeper than the holes in the sky, no matter which way I swim, it moves closer and closer.
I'm still terrified, but it is no longer a fear of the infinite it's a fear of the finite.
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I saw my friend's son right when he was born. He was so tiny. I couldn't believe that one day he could be as big as me or bigger. I couldn't believe that one day, his grandma is going to ask him, "How much you make a year?"
I can't leave sand castles for him and my own son/daughter and all their friends. I have to leave something that can withstand the waves, something that touches the infinite in this finite time that I have.
What is it?
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