Foundations Made of Sand

Everyone keeps telling me this is all about time.  But it feels more like space.  And I think there is a subtle distance between the two.  Time feels like an eternity and space more like air.

In the space I occupy, I am eternally present. This was always my goal of course. But remaining here is a constant struggle. My mind trips me with lies and tells me I am weak, I am used.  Except I am neither.

My mind wants to punish my heart, for making stupid decisions, for trusting.

I said my brain would lead me through this and I promised to not listen to the longing in my chest, because my heart would always go back.  I lived in reverse.  Accepted the wrong apologies, denied the voices, believed the touch.

Now I think I had even this backwards, for it is my heart, shallowly beating that is leading me now.  Wounded, but not broken, I can eradicate what is left and build a lifetime upon it.

Foundations made of sand, it turns out, are not always washed away–but float separately in a sea of memory.

What might have been becomes an abstraction, a piece of me yes, all of me no.  I ignore the whispers because even cast aside, I lie here alive. I feel the weight, but still breathe.

This is not my story yet.

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