I don’t think I ever believe I’ll live to see the day.
As if every morning is greeted with surprise that I’ve made it through another night. Somehow this wonderment sets me apart from those I watch go in and out, weaving their lives through mine for moments in seconds or years.
They say that we are where we’ve been. A cheap martini of genetics and experience with our environment skewered like a rotten olive to garnish. In one way or another, one will just end up exonerating their damages and waning sense of self as the cost of time. Sure, the excuse will coerce a night of drunken laughter and confessions for show, but every morning you’ll be blinded by the brilliance of truth in the luminance of lies. By twilight, the day will have dimmed it all again… and you’ll drink your chagrin by the litre.
And so I sit, malleable and unshaped, untouched and diffident… the make-a-wish child on the first and last roller coaster of their life. Every day might be the same, but I’ll awake amazed every time.. even if it’s never my last, I will never be my past.