Still Wondering

So still must be wondering. He is no one you would accidentally meet or spontaneously greet, neither in a dark ally nor in a sunny crowded boardwalk. You would not succumb to your lust, not be subjected to friends’ pressure. And you wonder how could it have been either ways. But you traveled the least traveled way. And you still wonder. And you set forth your craving and still cannot grasp nor taste. Not that it’s tasteless, nor intangible. Nothing resembles it. Not someone who is scared of regretting, but one that hates regret. Anyone who’d be so easily forgetful, but conscious of the fact he does not care. This kind of person who painfully remembers past artifacts, who never recalls names nor dates, yet meaningful events are sacred, but only as much as they reflect the future. Indecisive at times, but only for a reason, day dreaming when inspired, for long minutes, but realizes as soon as these moment past, that they belong to the past. A person with no affirmative principles, and ever-changing mood who seeks reflection of positive meanings in impersonal whereabouts. So when the light is out his Proustness is not so appealing as it may literally appeal, nothing depressive, nothing incorrect, simply illusive, unreal, the unmaking of over esteemed underachievement, which tomorrow may sound rude, senseless. Somewhere it has been said, already said, written, thought and experienced. History is now, as well as tomorrow’s history is now. Unless it is read in a story, it won’t even be such. So who was this one who could never dream, I still wonder, if that’d be considered as a sin.

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