It is so hateful of us to drink from the cup of misplaced nostalgia.
The dusty road that we all travel, in search for a space of solace from the endless grinding of our lives,
but like a spoiled child wanting it all and being denied,
we dig in our heels and resist change.
It’s a wicked self imposed trap,
so effective and executed with great finesse.
Fearful of the unknown,
we take detours and window shop through these trips down Memory Road.
Stopping every so often to tear open an old wound or two.
Coming home tattered and done in, needing sleep to bring life.
You’re left hanging there between doze and awake,
aware and trying hard not to be.
Frustrated at our failure, we nudge out the inner child and beat them until our eyes are tired from seeing it’s pained face.
Only then do the tears come and so does the sleep.