You looked at me with eyes so guileless, barely masked by that translucent film which bespoke of your firm conviction - that your reality is mine, and mine is yours. You see yourself in me, your father, your father's father, but you deny the existence of my own. The sun was curled on your lap in a spiral, or so I imagine, but the only warmth you felt was from the cradle of my hands. Again, you tell me your story from a mirror's perspective, and everything is so simple and clean. Again, I speak words which you want to hear, words which I also want to hear, but not from myself. Nonetheless, they are ignored or forgotten, at the turning of the next blind corner, as we have a relapse of the banal mundane. Why, nothing had ever happened.
I will like to spend my days, as though they are my own, which I mostly end up doing in halves, for duty beckons, and I am answering its clarion call. Soon enough! I am also a veteran procrastinator.