why is it that you can only write about things when they are gone? when the youth hanging on the precipice is safely past, you remember the thrill and danger of not knowing where you were going, the specific pain of insecurity pricks your eyes when you know that it will never come again.
on an overcast day you pick up an old book and listen to music filled with emotions that you can no longer feel. you fear remembering because every time you remember you risk rewriting the original. the hugeness of the possibilities expanding in your chest is already nailed down. how is it that youth passes so fast? you never thought it would end. every time you understand something, the time to use that understanding is past.
the careless carefulness of the young is something you'll never feel again. the future was bleak, but that was how you liked it. exciting in its bleakness. you looked forward to hopelessness. now it is no longer grey. it is normal, red blue green, you lose your perspective in normalcy.
you think everything passed you by, but it never did. it's locked in the days you spent your whole life living, only you can never bring it back.
