Too often, man is forwards looking before he learns to see his past is beautiful.
I’ve slowly separated from the now like roots withdrawing from the soil; the sun buzzes like an old fluorescent bulb overhead and its pale light makes me ache for depth and shadows. Too early I’ve reached the eventually when complexity abandons everyone and simplicity starts to dry up time like a puddle from the sidewalk after rain.
It’s in the air and in my breath. I can taste it in my spit. Through my veins and in my lungs, my heart, my sight. I feel it like instinct and re-think it like reason. And when was the last time I looked at the sky? The stars? The sun, or the moon? It makes me sick to my stomach that before the last leaf wept from green, to yellow, to orange, I didn’t even take the time to appreciate a single one. Not one. Not even for a minute, not even for a second.
Write out the wrongs.
This is the after; the world goes smooth & muted while you flicker & click like an old projector – as water fills a space, time fills up a moment. There isn’t a place for you in the past, like an eddy in the river flow – what stays behind is just illusion.