Dreadtime

We are never present. Our minds wander, linger, infest and fester in the memories we have of the past or the memories we hope to make of the future.

We are never present, always existing as products of the past... even the here and now become the there and then in an instant. We were never present in the past, in youth, time stretched like the skin of a whore in their salad days, through the school halls and past the labyrinthine lockers where memories are often unpleasant.

We were never present as the days we thought we recalled bleed into the ones that succeeded them and every second of them are now stranded in the desert of time, each second a solitary grain of sand.

We will never be present, as we descend further into the future, our lust for the past lingers and weeps like an infected wound of memory, our longing to return to simpler times is doomed to eternally swell. We will never be present when our minds decay and lovers become strangers, and strangers leave us behind.

And once again we dream in despair of the years we previously thought vacant and weep at the waste of an insignificant moment. Weep at the creation of an insignificant memory. We can never be present.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/yhcsoq/realm_of_origins/iude1kd?utm_medium=android_app&utm_source=share&context=3

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/yh90qw/not_all_soulmates_are_meant_to_be/iude3z7?utm_medium=android_app&utm_source=share&context=3