Brilliant Cornell University scholar, salesman, and regional manager Andy Bernard once said, “I wish there was a way to know you’re in the ‘good old days’ before you’ve actually left them. “

I’ve thought a lot about capturing moments in my writing, my photography, and my music. I think back to the moments I’ve cherished and longed for: the feeling in my chest when the bass dropped at a concert. The suffocating laughter of friends, with the assistance of liquid courage, that left you on the floor with sore cheeks. The tranquility of a prolonged pause in a conversation with a friend, with no obligation to speak; only a familiar, comfortable, peace. 

I’ve longed for a way to preserve these moments, so that I can conjure them in times of pain, loneliness, or uninspired droughts. 

But moments are not medication. 

The reason these moments are so precious is because they are fleeting. Sure, joy is meant to be shared. But you cannot expect the recording to command the same awe and wonder as the real thing. There’s a reason why our photos never do the sunrise justice. There’s a reason why we go to live performances of songs we’ve listened to a thousand times. There’s a reason we all hate Zoom. 

Maybe we can’t preserve moments because we aren’t supposed to. We’re just supposed to live them as they come, and be thankful they did.

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