Sometimes, I still go to the places that we used to go to when you were still young. thinking that maybe you would still be here. the child you once were, the child I once knew… but you’re not there. there is only the distant memory of you. it’s more like a dream, really. I can still hear the squeaky metal chains as they scrap and squeal, metal against metal... an all too familiar song of mine. But It sings to me still… to this day. The loneliness and sometimes, even the sadness. They still sing their lyrics back to me. I wish we had let our minds become unborn then. Because there would only be now, and there would only be here. That moment into this moment, just now. I've come to realize that memory is just a passage into a world well-lived... and time is the traveler that guides us there. I have always believed this. We are the travelers attempting to dream here, right here, in this present moment, this has become our place of practice. Every day… still. With or without you. Still, I'd rather it be with you
©Paul David Shea
