"everything gets smaller now the further that i go,
towards the mouth,
and the reunion of the known and the unknown.
consider yourself lucky if you think of it as home,
you can move mountains with your misery if you don't,
if you don't."
you close the book, put it up on the shelf, and long for someone to talk with about it. but, you find no one. for the best, in reality, as no one takes a story, or a song, into them in the same way. just like memories - our varied perceptions shade and color in the blurs and the greys. we all remember everything differently, even love, and especially loss. and sometimes it is a song that rips the ticker-tape off the skin, stirs the heart, makes it all hurt again. and sometimes it is just the pages spilling open, without provocation, or permission. the daisy petals dissolve in my hand, and i take a sad gasp of breath.
sometimes sadness is all you have left to remember these things by. but, it is feeling, isn't it?