I forget the winding stairs of this moment are chosen in past manifestations. This slight scatter of time across the floor near the final step folds in on itself, reminding me of the work ahead. Each word, contained in every second, becomes the tomorrow of this moment, a new manifesting of thought and dream.
In the distance, the image forms, breaks, and then reforms again because the future never settles into a anything solid. It's governed by the the twisting will of my current emotion, which changes with seasons or conversation, then folds away into the scatter of time across the floor. In this reach, my eyes fall with the knowledge that the many steps below lead to no certain destination, but to the wayward and unreachable dreams of a child.
I fall so easily to despair without the clearness of a crystal stream. When the waters muddy, hope floats down through sharp outcroppings of rock and debris, ripping the soft edges of innocence away. This shake to the core in me then finds reason enough to block the future I've so pushed to find. And yet, here it is today in front of me, molding its way into existence from moments chosen in past manifestations.
