distimed...

a familiar sadness fills the night

i have remembered old stories

recalled beloved friends, beloved books

the connection to yesterday, my childhood

so fragmented now, once so real

now so lost... just occasional glimpses

an old poem from an english textbook

a movie playing late night on tv

camelot, anne of green gables

sherlock holmes, hercule poirot

old photos of even older friends

i do not regret the times gone by

but the dreams that never bore fruit

the joys that i forgot to keep mine

the youth i lost along the way

i try to make sense of it now

why past and present are so entangled

yet so discrete, disparate, discordant

as if one cannot exist without the other

and yet if one is, how can the other be?

the dreams of the past are odd indeed...

they are the instruments that shape

the future that we will enter as adults

but they must be the first to die, so

we may survive the very real present