This fleeting yet unchanging moment. Ive seen it before. Been here, done this. Yet its always new. This déjà vu. Its always been here. Scratch by scratch. Inch by inch. In perfect increments. Its always the target. All wounds and sorrows and pain and agony. All scratch at the same place. With perfect pointy claws. Every time it dries its protest, there’s more to wipe off.
Its always there.
With age and pain and books, I thought this would change. I believed this would not be what I will become tomorrow.
I thought. And then I wrote this.