It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
And it really was.
The best of self-discovery. A list of everything I used to be. Scratch them out. Bury them under a mess of lines. Make room for a self somewhere in between, not who I was, not who I could become.
But there's no time to think about what's coming, no time to worry about anything.
Life wasn't a blend of sleep, thought, and music anymore.
It was day and night, socks, shoes, breakfast, lunch, dinner, bells 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, clock alarms, minutes, seconds, hours, cement walls dividing time.
There used to be floods of sunshine. Then the rain poured for days, washed our footprints away.
Now the wind just blows.
These crumpled-up secrets poised to take flight.
What's that sound?
They say it's just the leaves changing, falling to the earth.
It's just the trees becoming bare, preparing for the long winter, preparing for the new.