I don’t know where time goes. It’s just too hard to try and understand where all those moments end up. All those perfect, self-contained memories. Those fleeting scenes of harmony that are now lost like everything else. It’s a strange ride when you think about it. The here and now that passes us by when we’re not looking. The desperate horror and damned realisation that we can never go back. The things we lose never to be regained. The innocence of yesterday broken apart like hearts left hanging in the wind. Reading a book, I’m reminded that I was once a child. I still am, yet physically my body has seen the decades come and go like it were nothing. Things just slip through your fingers. Too late is just too much of a familiar feeling. There’s no point in looking back, yet those ghosts always haunt. They keep calling even when I try so hard to turn my back. History. The stains of our passing. Footsteps in the snow. Call it what you want, but we can never truly escape them. Everything changes yet we always stay the same. Children of endless afternoons, the future’s just another reason to be afraid. Too many lies. Too much conformity. Maybe that’s why I turned to writing. To forever be free of the mundane. To dance when the world around me was spiralling out of control. Freedom. That’s the song I sing. The beauty of our fragile time. It’s such a lonely road to travel, yet it has to be done. There’s no other outcome. It was written in the fabric of time aeons ago. From child to broken man, the plan of the great beyond is inescapable. Be frightened be pure. Be vigilant. Breathe in. Breathe out. This is what it is. This is how it feels like. It has to be done. Despite the hardship and numerous breakdowns, you know what you have to do. You can feel it in you, spreading its wings beneath your ribcage. Free that inner belief. Let it run wild and destroy at will. Let it terrorise. Let the world see that this is what it means to put pen to paper. That all those lonesome evenings you had a plan all along. No such thing as chance, only intent. The persistence and sacrifices that were made when no one else was looking. And no one looks. Not until you’ve reached your heavenly place will they begin to understand just what you’ve always been about. A monster in disguise. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

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