A fistful of sand

It's over.

Paths diverge, some branches get cut off. Such is the way of life. No use railing at it, for that's the way things are. It's already happened; I realized myself awhile back, and did nothing to arrest the progression. For that's what I'm trying to see it as, a natural progression, a given, that nothing I do will prevent. Something that is neither undesirable nor desirable but simply is. So why should I try now? Maybe we cup sand between our palms, not out of any particular wish to retain it but rather to enjoy the sensation of it flowing out of them, through the smallest gaps and cracks. Later, we repeat the process, with some grains kept, new grains introduced, and others irrevocably lost to the winds.

For me, all I can do is look towards next week as a turning point. Or perhaps not a turning point, as all the work's been done leading up to it already, but rather an unveiling of the future. My future. It's been at the back of my mind, bothering me, really. Can't get into things fully with this expectant air about things, as I await the unfurling of a map, the unrolling of a tapestry.

Ah and yes, I think I am very much fked up.