Maybe when someone wakes up and really sees the value in what was there, it will matter.
Winter, it’s really all I can think about. And yet it petrifies me at the same time. A cardboard box of things that will dump all on the floor at once. My safest place is always there, in the times that made a difference. As you leave your comfort zone, you unravel everything – you walk under branches and over the leaves. And years later it unfolds and reads like a beaten book. I could tell stories all day about very short intimate events. I can go there in my head and smell the air, I can feel the cold in my lungs. I can remember a shirt on my fingertips. And these places just are more real to me nowadays. I’m tired. I’m quiet. And I don’t want to lose the very little I have left.
There is just not enough time, and I really should not be surprised anymore. Why would I think the next one should ever be different.
“Most people have a rope that ties them to someone, and that rope can be short or it can be long. You don’t know how long, though. It’s not your choice.” – Nick Hornby