There are some days.
That self opinion.
Comes easy.
Memories dictate such.
Enlongated moments.
People trade their present for it.
To relive.
No.
To replay.
The meaning it once held.
Like that person wasn't them.
As if who walked around then.
Was some sort of effect.
The mirror responds.
Daily.
Without pause.
Winters bite.
Turns to summers kiss.
The longing only subsides.
When the race is done.
Only there is no such marker.
Just a slab of earth to remind us.
That.
Wishful thinking is all we are.
Thrown into a bucket.
While wasting away on lists.
The only regret worry having.
Is to fret over life.
Faces upon faces.
Micromanage the living.
An image.
Long since abstract.
Cascades through everything.
And once in awhile.
Can sense be found.
So pick a distraction.
And get lost along the way.
Then.
And only then.
Will nothingness find.
You.