I just read a story that was written many decades ago. The author is long dead, as is the person who wrote the breathless introduction to the story in question.
As I was reading, it occurred to me that these people were part of a group, a cohort. They were writing with enthusiasm, and reading what the others were writing as well.
They likely threw parties, swapped stories, and gossiped behind each others’ backs. I am sure that friendships formed and fell away.
They were not thinking “Oh, one day we will all be dead and gone, our words a hollow echo of these lives once lived.” No, they were in the midst of living those lives, very much in the present.
I suspect that this is not what the author of the story would have liked me to be thinking about, but there it is. The ephemerality of the moment floats over every page.
And I am reminded how wonderful it is to be alive, right now. It is a gift not to be taken for granted