The future is ubiquitous in the corridors of my mind. I’ve tried fruitlessly to capture her and put her on the page, but I’ve only managed fragments, tangential points in yet another self portrait.
But I haven’t stopped dwelling, on this fragile line between breaking in either direction, on worry and admiration and all the dreams that fall further out of reach every day.
Those dreams, those aspirations for another summer of youth, are the ones that I cling to the tightest. But they are dashed, with the knowledge that I can’t replicate the past, with the knowledge that I’m growing up, that they are all growing up. I can’t help but feel left behind.
We went and saw a movie last night, and we laughed ourselves nearly to tears, while realizing that as much fun as this was, we’d passed the point of viewing these movies like children are meant to.
I always envisioned us driving to the movie theater; but last spring took it all from us. Summer was bliss, but only because we’d been stripped of the pomp and frills, given each other, and that was all.
I shouldn’t want it back, shouldn’t be so selfish. But there’s something inexplicable about those days that I ache for now.
I thought we all wanted the same thing, but when you ran ahead, I stayed back.
You joined the stars on a collision course, entangled yourself with another.
Setting aside the resentment must be a conscious choice, but as hard as I try, it slips between the bars sometimes.
But last March, last summer, I expected nothing, and I received everything.
And the future isn’t without bright spots; in fact, the light is abounding. It merely remains uncertain.
Another Easter will pass unconventionally; another summer will find me unsure and fill in the gaps.
And I won’t let go; we won’t let go.