We were born like tangled vine

All I ever hear is your woe. Now is the winter of (y)our discontent made glorious summer? If not now, when? The solstice has passed, and the days are hot, full, and ready — waiting, as I am, for you. Listen, I understand that it can be all too easy to mistake possibility for certainty, to feel robbed of something not even acquired yet, as if the mere chance of an outcome had been guaranteed to produce it. But one: fuck that. And two: face it - some dreams never become reality. It serves no purpose to lash out at whatever circumstance might rouse you from sleep before your fantasy finds its meandering way to a happy ending, and yet lash you do... as if destroying the cause will somehow correct the effect. Come on, how often is that actually the case? Like a GPS recalculating a route, I simply take a different path; instead of chafing at being stirred from our imaginative slumber, I ease into daydreams that pick up where we left off before our rude awakening. I close my eyes and envision the days we deserved... we never ran screaming for the hills... we stayed together, taught the same subject at different schools, read a forest of books, penned countless pages on pixels and paper, grew old spending our evenings watching sunsets settle into the horizon, and lived along the river where the black clouds never lingered.