silent

There's so much to say, but of what use is it to speak when you can never say enough to say it all? To pour it all out, to fully open up and lay bare, bare in its barest form, completely dauntless of the hunting past and monstrous future planning to consume us all; of the strings that continuously pull us to each other when we want nothing but to be apart. Of the bucket list that gets shorter each passing season, with a promise to get more shorter, smaller, until nothing oh but mere wishes and the could-have-beens, given up for the sake of growing up or growing fast—I don't know the difference, if there ever is. Everything makes sense and makes no sense. I dream and then wish I had not. I love and then wish I had not. We aren't told; we aren't warned. There's nothing promising about this life but problems and familiarity that takes away every magic, every magic of a first time, the first sightings, the first wins, of a beating heart. If only there was a way to undo everything in order to do it all again.