We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.
PostSecret, March 25, 2017
I keep trying to feel who I was,
and cannot.
There was, also, a strained nostalgia in those reunions, […] because she struggled to find, in these adult women, some remnants from her past that were often no longer there.
Growing apart doesn’t change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I’m glad for that.
Maybe there is nothing, ever, that can equal the recollection of having been young together. Maybe it’s as simple as that.
I loved her for so long. Our past trails behind us like a comet’s tail, the future stretched out before us like the universe. Things happen. People get lost and love breaks.
It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past; should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down.
secretive dreams 