The Good Old Days Yet to Come

Fondly, I daydream of what has been.

I do not lose myself within the modest morass, created with struggles of twinklings past. An expert navigator. Hardly a puddle. I would have no issue sailing through. Instead, I find myself lost in the expansive plains of cherished moments yore.

I do not exist as a requiem of my past, yet I am still a slave to a master nostalgia.

I cannot gripe about the station to which I have arrived. Derailment? Most definitely not. Delays? Accidents? More than I could ever count. In spite of a past rife with actions (and inactions) that a decent human ought to regret, those hardly ever come to mind. Forlornly, I lament not mistakes or things left undone but the good times never to be had again.

A being of the present, the past will forever elude me. That fact, though I have surrendered to its truth, cannot blind me from yesterday's beckoning. The allure of the past grasps at my heart desperately. My longing would liberate my heart to be consumed, but my rib cage will not give way. Whether the key exists in the current, I cannot be sure. It may have been washed ashore. Even still, all I know is the terminal pursuit.

Minor indulgences divert my feet and avert my eyes from the object. I have not the energy to fervently continue. But I cannot rest easy until I reach the terminus. Hoping that behind the bright veil of light lies not my death but the answer I seek, I depart.