How often do I (you) travel to these places,
Tinged with regret?
Those moments of clarity suspended in my past
A veritable cold snap of life
The last vestiges of cycles, clinging, hanging on in our mind,
Desperate not to be forgotten.
These seminal points which help define me,
Granting me that individuality which I (we) so strongly desire.
Whether a silken strand I wish to stretch to eternity,
Or self deprecating shame from which I forever hide,
Still I return, drawn as a moth to the flame.
At opposite ends of suspension, these memories
Elevateth the soul, or crush it under harsh unyielding gravity.
Yet despite this, I still visit.
What aspect of my psyche desires this anchor?
Why is it that those points of reflection, so turbulent,
Are the moments immutable?
The past is unchanging, and I always remember
That my candle burns, the wick ever shortening,
...But even still, I loiter.
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