I was young and proud. I lived with the future, like all people who live in illusion. But one day it all broke. Not with a bang—but a slipping. I remember laughing too loudly at a dinner party, hearing my own voice and feeling suddenly hollow. There were no catastrophes—only small betrayals. I stopped enjoying music. I postponed visits. I avoided mirrors. And what do you think remained? Just the habit of being me. A habit that no longer fit. Now, when I pass the cafés where I once felt immortal, I do not feel nostalgia. I feel embarrassment, as though I had believed in magic, and someone kindly let me grow up.

We all go further and further with no questioning, as it be a fact of life. Who are we to dispute? We be a victim yet to realize the crime before it no longer need be reported, cries unheard. May we all once achieve what was once lost, though it be near impossible. Odds against you as if you played a bad hand, lucky few make it. One may say to let go and grow new roots but an old and dead tree is just that. New roots require thou to settle again, forget the old and look forward. Old cannot be resurrected, and if it may, it be a crime against the flow of time. Forced to grow and forget previous generations of what made you, be the way. All is not so somber, may you find joy in new growth. May you find peace of previous generation sacrifices, to know the seed of the pod of the tree you sprouted from. May it all be a mark, now is the moment to deploy yours and have these moments be the same as the previous until you lack the ability to realize the know all to tell the difference.

I am me but the past reflects a blurred image of itself, warped. Alas, there is no mirror to look into, only images made of snapshots of what we mentally thought were moments to hang onto, they too warp. Were they so significant? We ask ourselves, perhaps its only I to look back. Thats okay, knowledge is self fulfillment and to not worry of others, so lonesomeness should have no effect. Those be the formal rules we only enforce to ourselves, but rules flex as much as ourselves, no law, no reason. May we visit the days we took a vacation from, to grow, to know, to build, and to forget. Yet, we will be back, but as always, time moved without us. We were not needed, we are disposable and expendable. Although as welcomed we may be, the missing world as experienced every second as we have, it never waited. It too has experienced the same as us, and therefore the cycle loops.

As I look down the narrow valley that be the past, I've all but aged and became the old and withering fool of what used to be my playground joke. Alas, this is the result of a fruitful life, the tree but ran barren. Why resist to look back of days of olde? May it be a result of wasteful potential, times of youth and wonder left us neglectful of the inevitable tick of the tock. Perhaps that is what we envy as we wither, even though it yields none of the blissfulness, just a sheer moment of memory caught in a more insignificant glimpse of our past. Though, we may of seen our past selves as a joyful shell of what we are, all is not gone. Hard to see thou a shell when all of the past still remains. You remain, I remain, our memories remain, but yet "it" still is long gone. Sanded and corroded like an old wordsmiths wrench, bound to be replaced but yet accomplished so much. I've lost no identity but cannot relate to days of olde.

+rep One of the best heli pilots that has ever graced the sky.

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