All we are is dust in the wind, dude.

It has been an eventful last few weeks over here in Brussels.  The best holiday of the year, Halloween, has come and gone.   The calendar is moving forward and sand continues to trickle through the tiny opening of the hourglass.  It is hard to believe that winter is nearly upon us.  Only a few months ago, I spent several weeks basking in the sweltering heat of NYC's summer and riding a bike in my bikini along the southern coast of California.

 As a November baby, I enjoy the crispy autumn weather, but when the leaves start to turn colors and fall away, I know that the next chapter of my life, another year, is about to begin.  Growing older, reconciling yourself with the changes to come and accepting the inevitable in all of its forms (the big D), is crushingly difficult to come to terms with.  It is in these moments, despair and terror-filled, that I am rejuvenated.  Once again, after reviewing all possibilities and realizing that there are none but one, I am renewed in my desire to live, to enjoy the moments that I have and take them for myself.  My dear readers, if I am to impart to you anything in this post, it is the remembrance that time is fleeting and that every moment counts. CARPE DIEM. On that note, here poem by Andrew Marvell entitled, "To his Coy Mistress":

To his Coy Mistress 
Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide 
Of Humber would complain.  I would 
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.  
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue 
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all 
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Of course, this poem is basically just a man scheming to get his lady into bed with him (typical), but the overall message is universal.  Seize the day, ladies and gentlemen, before the sun sets and the long sleep begins (and your hymens are eaten by worms).  I am looking forward to whatever the year ahead will bring.  Though I cannot make my sun stand still, I plan on enjoying all the wonderfully small pleasures brought with each passing day.  Don't get lost in the dust, my friends.  Keep moving forward, keep challenging yourselves, and keep loving.

Until next time, dear readers.

SURPRISE!  Taken yesterday - not your typical Brussels evening sky.