Lone

In life, since you're a child, you are promised the finding of your other half. Or the one to complete you. Or the one to take your breathe away. You are promised a life worth living through the eyes of a mate.

And then one day you realize that perhaps, somehow, in some far away land unbeknowest to you all of those dreams have gone to rest. Because the truth is that although it was promised, it wasn't realized.

And so you grow old. go old. All the past relationships just tremors in the new version of your life. Somehow it stopped making sense and fear crept in. You let fear in because the thought of the maybes was so consuming, so filling, so passionately electrifying that it lost purpose.

And so now you wonder, will you die without realizing what it's like to want to be wanted, to need to be wanted, to need to be needed? Will you ever live to know the difference between discomfort and desire. Will you ever know what its like to yearn or be yearned for?

Will you ever? A lone, lacking filler, lacking the one. And in those happily ever afters the only truth that remained was that of a tale that once occurred, that no longer is.

And so it is...

Somehow time became life's enemy. It seems that years are now remembered by a memory, a token, an instance. What then was then, what now is now. No longer are there depressions, or epigrams, items to mark milestones; those which once were considered stepping stones.

The landscape has been altered. Times periphery-the horizon is changed as minutes are no more. It seems the older you get, the less likely you are to accept change. The more rigid in your ways, the more trite in your words. And yet, it goes on.

And so it is, the falls and springs which propose balance, which allowed for time’s victory over oneself. The seasons of change became the seasons of hopes and dreams, of challenges and now those same seasons have become memory's nightmare. No longer are there blessings in time, sympathy in moments, apathy in seconds-rather a serene anomaly of gratefulness and dread.

And what of those parting nuances that dance and tip-toe around the road less taken; Of the wants and needs which have marked desperation? And of those lost souls, who long to be longed and fear a life not worth living, examining. A soul without its mate. A lifeless soul some can say.

What once was lost may never be complete, but time stops for no one. And life stops not for ones misery.

Just like you said it should be.