Don't Look Back in Anger

Trembling hands run themselves across a quickly aging face – not so much a mirror of age, but like a one way mirror into the state of the spirit. Countless pointless compromises, unasked and unanswered questions, and a feeling of emptiness at what seemed like the beginning of the end – and an end that was to come much like the rest, anyway. Maybe it could have been different. No, surely it would have been different. And then what? Maybe this end would have seemed less purposeless, more deserved.

References to lives gone by is maybe a way of moving on. But then again, words don’t quite understand. They can’t comprehend the meaning we give them, and they’re perpetually sucked into that dreary cycle of rhetoric. But maybe the worst possible scenario is the one that doesn't even leave you with enough words to recollect everything. Not because it’s largely inarticulatable (nR), but maybe because seeing life as a linear narrative does not let you think of it in terms of prose or verse. Or maybe it does. I wouldn’t know…

Gestures don't speak for themselves. Maybe that’s where the mistakes are made. But the imperative to talk also bears us down. Maybe the only choice left is to not look back in anger…