sea of change

But to never punish yourself for your inability to open your fist and throw into the sea the dismembered shells, damp mud, twisted twigs, shards of heartbroken moon, rust eaten ships that will never sail again, unresolved rhyme schemes of incomplete poems, memories so out of context that you feel you can put a frame around them and gift a stranger you’ll never call back, because we’re living in the past, all of us. There’s only one intimacy we can truly claim to have enjoyed, if at all, which is that of the past, like newborn authors, always pouring out their lives into their works, almost on the verge of writing autobiographies, almost telling everything at once; because there’s never going to be a ‘what’s next’, but only ‘I remember’


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