I am not one to live in the past. It isn’t possible so why try to do so. But sometimes the past tugs at the present, casting hooks, embedding within our flesh.
Eyelids ensnared, I trudge forward facing backwards, progressing forward but unable to see what lies ahead. How do I uncatch myself? Do I want to? Can I snatch the lines and pull them forward, back into my present?
Ahh. The vain hope of the despairing. Yes, I am caught. And bound as well.
Can I cast my own line and change my present? Assuredly but how? How can I perform this feat? How many how’s must I utter and answer before I am finished. Yet… a thousand lines would be cast should I find the means to do so.
There is the stitch: is it impossible now? Have I cast aside the castings which were my hope? Hmm.
Am I to be remembered or forgotten… For a word, my arm. For a sentence, my body. For a look, my life.
Defeated, though I battle not. But I cannot give up… can I? Questions marks, question marks, and marked questions. I have more of those than molecules of air in my lungs. Which is fitting because it seems so very hard to breathe at times, what with interrogation points teeming in their place.