I scour over the memories- pictures on the floor.
Some 35mm, some 600, a few digital printed on paper;
all languages I have known.

I take my time writing them out for myself,
the dates, as I rip them and throw them away. I think I used
to be someone else.

Like, the kind of person that would laugh at other's struggles
with humanity. Saying all the while, "Your problems are nothing compared to mine!" while I became increasingly bitter.

I don't like riding this blurred line,
I hope you never cried.
But I would never say it out loud.

No, I'll keep that to myself.
And all these moments afterwards,
where I see the speckled clouds behind my
screen; reflections of a time I remember a year ago.

So loud is the thundering,
though the clouds are white.