The past becomes the present once more.

pacing.
the action of waiting, or actively contemplating ... decisions. like choice - one or the other. sometime long ago, i decided to rid myself of the deception, hardly realizing that sobriety was, and is not the enemy. rather activates the enmity that calculates the flaws in me. so to myself, poised at a computer whose keyboard seems cold and sterile to my hands .. lonely, isolated entities crying for accompaniment. that dream. ambition. a reason for waking.

i'm that simplistic rendition of a man trapped in a box, who can feel neither a box, nor a heartbeat. that ideal, that chance to feel.

this smile is a picture. like a slide of negatives i pull from the wicker drawer in my old house - to rediscover our lost journey, washed memories, my youth. a boat. the sun. a girl, and the image of her best friend at her side. before the complications of the world became too strenuous. before those expectations of self domintated our existence, and destroyed you. those vile dreams of other people, society's whore. before the loss of innocence, and freewill .. there sat a girl beside a young me, whose memories had stolen the days events and hidden them from the rest of the world. a map to our treasure, the salt covering our bodies would linger with the pleasant sting of sunburns.
a pinch of melancholy tries to hold back pride and pleasure as it seeps from the mind, and enters the body. taking it's course from that dualistic muscle, through the veins and coursing down every nerve until it is satisfied that the past has become the present once more. and the pings of my past have given that intellect something to live for.