Usually when one thinks of the concrete and the abstract they rarely associate the two together. Instead, they see the two words as being completely different categories. This, for the most part, is correct. Although there are two instances in which the two words come together to create something beautiful and unexpected. Symbolism aside, the instance of which I speak is when time is applied to anything tangible.

Time has seen to the end and beginning of endless lives, nations, natural structures, species, and popular fads. It is our closest visible connection to the thing we call death and the miracle we call birth. Time is the immortal king which rules over all things we hold dear…all things that is except for our dreams.

Do yourself a favor and take a look at who you were four years ago and who you are today. Compare the two and you’ll come upon one of two extreme conclusions:

Either, A) you’ll find yourself to be a more improved version in every single way imaginable (including acquiring a much greater sense dignity and losing that terrible habit of crying whenever you look at yourself in the mirror and only thinking, “I’m so lonely” over and over and over again until you discover peace once more whilst simultaneously watching The Notebook and eating a pint of slow churned Rocky Road ice cream).
Or, B) you’ll be utterly devastated by the immense difference you see in yourself and realize that your innocence has run off with your sense of dignity, good looks, and Brad oh-his-eyes-are-just-so-dreamy-I-want-to-fall-asleep-in-them-as-if-they-were-two-massive-bright-blue-beanbag-chairs Johnson, your sophomore boyfriend.

Luckily for me though my recollections do not bring about the greater shame associated with the latter realization. Instead, I’m reminded of a smaller version of myself, not so much in size really, but in character. When I travel back to my past I’m greeted by a lonely boy. A quiet kid with a wild charisma restrained by the shackles of unfamiliarity and fear. A young lad whose only connection to me is a vague similarity in appearance and a handful of dreams; a small bundle of hopes and ambitions that have, and always will be, the only part of me that will withstand the perpetual erosion of the body that is time.

Granted, one could chalk up the optimism I hold for my aspirations as an exorbitant amount of optimism or to the naivety of youth. Though, in response to that I ask this: what is not youth but a time of optimism and not optimism but a time to show our youthfulness? And what are not dreams but a rebellion against time? My refusal to yield my goals to that bastard father time should not be regarded as green ignorance. Furthermore, it is not a denial of age and of someday losing my youth. Rather, it is a bridge over the sophomoric pessimism that plagues so many adults into the wisdom of an elder. I am proud to say that I find a kindred spirit in the dying man, wasting one of the last ounces of energy he has in making the final checkmark on his bucket list. I find solace in my rebellion against time.