We can’t take back days we deny ourselves the courage to rise above ailments that have persisted for too long a time. Nestled only in memory, only our perception will allow a greater vista than what we have experienced. Can we write about the past in present tense, overlooking our faults and frailties? When does it become fiction, and when will we realize its inaccuracy?
Nights arrive earlier. Darkness is thicker: longer. You have to look further to find the light. It is there, just not as it was. Is anything ever as it was?