Don't feel bad. This is the way of things.
Iâ€™ve known you most of my life. I knew you before I met you. That figure in dreams, in the hopes of my tomorrows. And now the days have turned into weeks, into years, into two small children weâ€™ve created. These children who grow so fast, yet not fast enough.
What is it that I want?
Itâ€™s such an easy question to ask. Yet, as with most things, the answer is over there and the path to it, like wading through molassesâ€¦ on a cold day. I canâ€™t find the clarity or the calm in all that sweet.
Whether or not I get there with you is another question, with another answer, with another wayâ€¦
I think complicated is something for youth. All the crinkles smooth out with age, much like a rock tumbled along until it barely resembles what it used to be on the outside. Ah, on the outside.
Iâ€™ve got too much to do right nowâ€¦ hands to wipe and lunches to pack. Iâ€™ve gotten up four times while attempting to write thisâ€¦ and somehow I have to find the time to figure out what I want. Thereâ€™s not enough time for me. Well, isnâ€™t that the problem? Well, yes. Well, wellâ€¦ fuck.