this is it. Even though I let my writing pass as do the days—rushed, messy, unfinished—there is no truce, no reprieve. This is it. Through sentiments unspoken and emotions unexplored, I must make my way, and work hard and frenzied to capture from the furious flow something for me; of me. I am worth it, so I'm told. I deserve.
What did I think in my luxurious youth? That these days would wait for me, forever? They gathered. They pressed in upon each other. They looked at me expectantly, hoping I would come participate. Reluctantly, so reluctantly, the ones that waited most moved on, unconsummated, unfulfilled, unloved.
I wondered why they stayed. (I knew.) What were they waiting for? (My arrival.) What did they want? (Me.) I kinda knew—of course I knew! Nonetheless, I turned away. Because of certain events (it really doesn't matter why), I bore particular restraints which allowed no other movement; I turned away.
nothing is so misunderstood as the wisdom of children. They mourn the loss of any moment left untouched, any precious drop untasted in the flood. Children know its value, they know from where it comes; they are not too far from there themselves. But we make them give up that intrinsic wisdom, only to return it to them, piecemeal, in full adulthood as if we had invented it ourselves.
Love is all there is. Now or never. This is it.
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