It’s night before it’s afternoon.
December is here before it’s June.
My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?”
at some point in your life you will be anchored to the past, sometimes despairingly, miserably and to something unfinished or regrettable, but you will wake up with flutters in your chest that make you question, above all, the way you have chosen to live through that undefined amount of time. that day is the triumphant day your heart’s bell tolls and summons you to listen, if that is the last thing you do before your bones are scattered among the flowers, to the sounds of your own finite heartbeat, to realise that your dreams are attainable only if you let them be, that beauty does not equate to goodness nor contentment, and that fake happiness (for me it took on a human figure and tricked me terribly) is an illusory pleasure bound to be lost just as you experience it.
