I am a rolling snowball of craving, a litany of wants, like a mindless jellyfish dragging its tentacles across the depths of the ocean hoping to feel anything, anything but the dull ache of regret.

Don’t look back. Nostalgia that's nothing more than a dull blade we drag across our wrist vainly hoping that we can use our blood to paint a pastel, a beautiful cosmic rendering of the past we so desperately want back.

The thing is the past isn’t real at least the version in your skull.
The second you surrender control of the moment the cruel machinations of your head immediately start twisting and contorting that memory to be an edge. It's another lockpick for the cage of falsified reality just out of reach

We didn’t envision it would turn out this way but when have expectations ever kept a promise.

Sure life is *****, but brown that’s just a color used to paint masterpieces and isn’t dirt just a reminder of where you came from, that you aren’t god, and someday you will be the dust clinging to another kid's trousers.

So take that dirt in your heart and plant a seed in it while you still can, and maybe you can let it grow this time