Flowers On Sunday Upon a Time

This was not the life I expected, or thought I was making.  I have heard of plans and goals, yes.  But no matter what attainment you covet, I think you only know afterwards what you’ve made.  When it’s too late to discover anything besides the forces you couldn’t see at the time.  Your own darkness, unquestionably.  But also the persistent shape of yearning and fulfillment – and that old devil, Hope.

Life is what I’ve done.  What I’ve made, is all told mainly by the losses.

To have love rejected.  There really isn’t any other wound.

 

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