Remembering it all is a burden in itself.
Or so it has turned to be.
To forget would only now be a luxury.
As time fades on,
as do I.
Fading,
morphing,
changing.
All actions in themselves- yes-
But those of a rather passive intent.
If only as I pretend to forget,
May I actually.

Dreams will continue to evade me.
Empty from riding on false emotions.
Adorning themselves upon the ideal of eventual joy,
sometime I wish life were as simple as to forget what ought to be forgotten.
But then I recall how dead the lives of the forgetful are.
They decay in an endless cycle of their own unknowing.
There will never be a point of true contentedness.
Always.

The hanging notion of dread will haunt us all.
Never will there be complete satisfaction.
Life in itself is a drought of empty dreams.
There is only hope if you can remember.
Hope eats at those who cannot forget, until
it is all gone. Everything.
Hopeless promises.
Misbegotten idiots,
and all I hear screaming is,
“What did you say again?”