The Pictures

I remember the days when life was not full of meaning, but meaningful all the same. I remember when playing in the dirt and the mud bonded me closer with others than the simple act of talking does now. I remember when calling a friend "my brother or sister" actually meant something. When these bonds of friendship where so tight and caused our shared enemies to quiver in fear of our shared anger and hatred of them that I felt safest in the most hostile environment. I remember the days when sleep was not a chore but a reward after a long day. Where sleep meant recovery and not self-deprivation. I remember these days, that give the impression that hundreds of years have passed in only two decades. These days that only happened maybe twelve or thirteen years ago give the impression that I have lived multiple lives instead of just this one. That all these memories are just pictures in my mind of someone else's life. The struggles, the joy and play, the sobbing and the laughing. All of them are just pictures of someone's memories while I now sit examining my existence from another's eyes.