Sometimes

Sometimes, time flies before our very eyes, carrying on its feathers all the words unsaid.

Sometimes, the past brings us all the lives unlived.

Sometimes, all our broken dreams haunt us in the night, dancing before our closed eyes, piece by piece.

And then, almost always, we wonder who said those words, who lived those lives, who kept those whole dreams.

And then, almost always, we prefer oblivion.

And then, almost always, we say to ourselves that the words unsaid were ours, no one else’s, and that they died in the black pond of the wasted words.

We say to ourselves that the life we live is only ours, and that no one is living the one that was destined only to us, and that all the unlived lives die in a deep and unreachable well (so that nobody can steal them)

And we like to think that the dreams were broken with a hammer made of crystal and tears, and that they could never be whole again.

And we go on living our forgotten life.