Memory

The reality of this day. The reality of the days that came before.

I have been in love before. Such love. With people and winding streets and trees and living.

To get back to that place. To hunger for the names and stories of people all around. To live an explorer, curious, inquisitive. To spend all my love with extravagance. To receive it back a hundred times over.

Oh when did life turn so serious? When did my love grow tired? When did this hoarding begin?

Now this pressure: say the right thing, do the right thing, live in convention. The knowledge that a word spoken out of turn can wound so deep. A liberty taken can send someone out to the streets.

Let me come back to that simple place, that recklessness. 

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