My mistakes seem so much more prominent tonight. I've begun writing again in the past few weeks, a habit I try to upkeep. These words don't flow like they used to. I find it difficult to understand how I'm feeling most days, much less describe it.
An incredible yearning for a different time, a different place. I have always wished to be somewhere else, sometime else. But in recent years I'm not sure where else I could escape to. I've become cognisant of all that I would miss about this moment right now if I were to fast forward, or rewind. But still, I so deeply wish to. Or at least be given the assurance that things would turn out okay, that it doesn't get worse than this.
Every day is short lived with nostalgia, longing, grief, remorse. Some days it feels lighter, but it gets heavy again. It takes time, right? That's what they say. So many tasks in hand right now I wish it would just bury me, stress me till I. can't. think. This mind is the most treacherous thing I can't leave behind.
I dream about her every night.
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