Where are the days when I sowed into your life and you into mine? It meant so much
in that moment, but
is that harmony lost to the multitude of noises in the universe—the ever present drone, earth to star. Or is the moment captured and catalogued somewhere in a file called
“Meaning”—memories of things that really mattered and were not lost to time and distance and division.
When you complain that I complain too much or criticize my being critical—
when you accuse me so harshly for not using words that are pure and edifying,
is it not just an ever-turning. never-ending circle, and
what we hate in others,
we hate in ourselves, and
what we judge in others is our own pernicious crime? But how does it stop?
If you stop judging me, and I stop voicing pain and discouragement, does it fade away?
Does it disappear just…
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