[JOURNAL ENTRY - UNDATED]
The ache is always there, isn't it? That hollow longing for moments that slipped through your fingers like sand. You remember the warmth of summer afternoons when the world felt endless, when every possibility stretched out before you like an open road. But now... now those days are just ghosts.
i close my eyes and try to remember
the way the light filtered through the leaves
laughter that came so easily then
dreams that felt within reach
They say time heals all wounds. But what about the wounds time itself inflicts? The cruel arithmetic of aging - each birthday a reminder that the clock only moves forward, never back. You can chase nostalgia, collect photographs, replay old songs, but you can never step back into that river twice.
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the photographs yellow at the edges
memories fade like old polaroids
what price would you pay to feel that joy again
even for just one stolen moment
the unbearable lightness of being
trapped in the amber of what was
Sometimes I wonder if this sorrow is what makes us human - this beautiful, terrible awareness that time is a thief. We build our lives on shifting sands, clinging to the present while mourning what we've lost. And the most painful truth of all? That the person you were then is just as lost to you as those golden days.
You can never go home again.
But oh, how you long to try.
