I stare into the dusk wondering if life is a collection of moments or are my moments a collection of me.
A bird bobs and weaves on the line of the horizon, acting out the ups and downs of what it means to just be.
The faint sound of the wind carries with it a whisper of mistakes I have yet to make.
Now the only secret remaining is how long to make those mistakes it will take.
I spring during the day and winter by night, cozying up to the notion of sleep.
Will I dream myself real or make real my dreams? Is there a nightmare looming that shall make me weep?
Whatever I am and whatever I become, sit on the edge of my mind.
I am who I was yesterday, who I am today, and who I will be tomorrow, strands deeply intertwined.
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