All the memories feel so detached.
The time slips by and the things
you did to pass it feel as unreal as the
dreams that burn against the inside
of your skull when you awake.
It’s another day.
It’s another passing afternoon.
The reasons for everything you do
and everything you did blur and
dissipate and the emotion of it all
fades to background noise.
The hope of the future has become
the consequences of the past and
the context of the present.
Where have you been all of this time?
Where have you been while you were living?
Memory is as real as a good movie, captured
in pictures, or written down like a book
That you remember but can’t quite
recall the theme.
Time is unforgiving in its perseverance,