The time of our lives

Some things I've begun to realise: that living life at a walking pace, living from day to day wholly in the present, without a foot in the past or a hand reaching for the future, is infinitely better than chasing sunlight around the globe and inhabiting the darkness at the brink of a horizon. This is not only the best way to live, it is what life is, the only thing; nothing else is real. We have to live in the sunlight that comes upon us with the inevitability of life itself; we have to live with it, and nothing immaterial can stand up to its dazzling, effulgent glare: the figments of imagination, the ghosts of the past, all exorcised in a single incandescent affirmation that the world is all that is the case, and anything that is not radiant with the immediacy of life we ought to hurl into the fire. The pipe dreams, the hopes held out, the promises unrelinquished, the implications and the inferences and the infelicities are all like ashes in one's mouth, and the sounds of our laughter and wailing should echo and roll away from the single point that is the now: life lived on the knife-edge of time.