Life is a collection of pictures and videos and songs and files and what-nots stored, at times haphazardly, in what I just referred to in the previous paragraph as our 'bio-hard drive'.
These experiences are interwoven into a delicate fabric that make up our life stories. The more experiences, the more intricate the pattern.
Consciousness, after all is simply a continuing story - a tale we weave with every single thing we do - and we get to decide how it twists and turns and ends and continues like a river snaking it's way from the mountain where it's spawned, through forests and meadows, through deserts and marshes, until it finds its way to the sea.
Anyway, I have always thought of myself as an early bloomer.
I was preparing dinner for my siblings at the same time that my peers were wading and playing in knee-deep mud puddles. I was helping out my father do home fixes at the same time that my peers were ranting about the kind of brakes their bikes should have. I was working in a minesite as a laborer shoveling rocks and mine goop at the same time that my peers were enjoying high school summer vacation. I was already initiated into the sinful indulgences of the flesh at the same time that my peers were giggling like schoolgirls about their first kisses. I was starting out a career in teaching at the same time that my peers were still unsure what to study in college. I could continue on but I’m sure you get the picture.
With these ‘advanced experiences’ I have always held my head over and above my age level (and sometimes those a bit older than myself) and saying, “I’ve seen more than you can possibly dream. You haven’t seen anything yet, buster.”, albeit silently as I feigned interest in their stories.
But recently (after I came across a blogpost by one of the greatest writers of this time, John Carlton), I simply realized an entirely new perspective in my life’s experiences that I’ve never ever seen before.
You see, I’ve long since stopped savoring my moments. Food is fuel so you just gobble it up. After all you don’t see a car lingering in the gas station ’savoring’ the fresh injection of diesel in their tanks. A beach in any part of the world is simply the same - salty water meeting sand and sometimes testing its resolve against rock cliffs.
I have stopped compiling my stories thinking I had enough.
But that post that talked about writing your own stories and looking at the world through the eyes of people who knew what living was all about, showed me how wrong I am as effectively as a sticking a bunch of dynamite up my butt. 
Now I have a newly reborn desire to pile it up, absorb it all and to try to breathe it out in paper and ink so I could show it off like the spoils of conquest.
Simply put, if at this stage (I’m 31) and I already have stories that will make most people I know who are in their 40’s look like kindergarten, what more if I was older?
I have always been told that you should pile up riches in places where moths and rust don't eat and destroy.
Let me now pile up my stories. Let me continue to revel in the beauty and enthusiasm of life. Let me bathe in its triumph and defeats. Let me marvel at the enormity of life's span and scope. And hopefully in the end, when I get to sit with my progeny gathered around my feet and staring at my wrinkled countenance, I would have a wealth of stories to tell them - of the dragons I slayed and of the maidens I danced with and kissed, of the tears I shed and the happiness that made me want more, of the music I've heard and the silences I treasured, of the memories that made me full and the experiences that colored me.
Summer has ended as I am writing this, but I feel like the sun’s beating at my shoulders and stinging my eyes as I feel sweat trickling down my back as the humid air fills my lungs and the salty and tangy scent of skin fills my head.
It’s summer all over again and this has got to be the best I’ve had ever.
