We tell all the same stories, again and again, it's strange how you can know a whole host of another's memories when the ones you have together are so few. We hash and rehash, try to find new gems in piles of sand, but the secret is the sand is what builds your castles, and all it takes to glimmer is shining the light just right.
I woke early this morning for a meeting, I went home from the bar for a late return to the midnight oil. I looked a young child in the eyes at dawn and whispered apologies for my negligence, apologies for my shortcomings and the way my priorities have twisted themselves to pay rent, to live a little longer in this dream. He sells his home to afford saving the world while you cobble yours together to create another. There are rights and wrongs here but you've lined your pockets with justifications and you wonder how they'll fare once winter comes. I play rain sounds in my headphones as though I can fake connection: the truth is some days we run on empty. The truth is I can run myself into the ground if you give me enough room to really make a go of it. Every now and then I read a piece of poetry so true I think nothing else is relevant.
I said I regretted nothing.
I'm beginning to think it was true.
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