At 68, I can assure you that life is fleeting. Sometimes I feel like everything that went before today was a dream, an illusion; that reality is a like a vivid dream that you remember when waking up, then gets foggy as the day progresses.
Fleeting makes me think of a hummingbird flitting so rapidly that you only get glimpses of it. It vanishes as quickly as it appeared; was it there at all? Why not go more slowly like a butterfly, so that its beauty can be better observed? How much we lose when life passes too rapidly, and the moments become hazy like the view out of a speeding car: you know there is beauty to be seen in the landscape, but it eludes you.
The sunset, at once brilliant and breath-taking, disappears as it slips behind the horizon taking its glory with it; yet dawn comes slowly with less fanfare, though the beginning of a day should carry with it great anticipation, shouldn’t it?
Fleeting long ago meant floating, as a stream flowing over rocks and eroding the banks. Sometimes I feel life often races by, it also has a continuity that pushes it forward, ever moving and progressing to an unknown end.