One day.
One fine day. When dust finally settles. Then we can speak freely about those wasted years.
Those years went by, twas eons ago or at least it felt like it, but every time you reminisce, the thought of it would make your old scars reappear, your wounds reopen with a dash of salt dusted upon it.
But the salt won't make the taste feel better, it stuns you, it simmers your insides, with a mindful silence. An unfathomable vigour.
The past is like a book you've read, that's bittersweet while it lasted. Like an emotional roller-coaster, that gives you that adrenaline rush, but once you reread it, the rush will quickly be crushed.
The past. Open and shut. Like a splinter at the back of our minds. A teacher armed with a double edged sword. Twisted yet sensible. Crazed yet manageable.
One day.
