There are always things
that we want to talk about...
there are always things
that we want to keep to ourselves...
there are always fragments
of the past that return
and then are gone again
in the snap of a finger...
there are always people
who you want to forget about
but who come to mind
whenever we are alone
and wondering about life.

Within every moment of time
we all experience something
different and personal...
within every relationship
we all experience things that are both
wonderful and yet temporary...
within every day of our lives
we all learn from what came before -
even though we are still capable
of repeating the same mistakes of the past...
within every voice that we hear,
within every gaze that we share,
within every touch that we feel,
we all experience a transference
of understanding that may
take some time to fully
integrate itself into our psyche.

So much of life is remembered,
so much of life is forgotten...
only so much of who people are,
who people were,
can be captured physically
by using words and art -
because other people always want
to add their own ideas
of what made something
and what made someone
what they were...
so much of the world
has been remade
by humanity and by Earth itself
that there is no longer
an accurate representation
of what and how things used to be...
only so much can be retained -
but that is the sort of challenge
an artist lives for:
to make something
captured by their senses
endure long into the future,
to make something
that people genuinely love...
everything that we all live through
leaves a trace of itself -
just as everyone and everything
that once served as a source of inspiration
lives on within a writer's blood.