When I regard those days that have gone their way, I try to think of something cunning to say. I cannot clear my thoughts for my pining—they clamber as the fading memories do through waning. It’s not that there is a bad thought there in retrospect—no—rather said that somber recollection makes it go all the faster, as the years streak past me in a veil of tears. And so I’d like to sit and think of all the things I’d put to ink (remembering makes the times fade slowly, but to languish in the past so fitly): it makes my vision blur with sadness, to sit and think of all the gladness, to trade a thousand future days of mine, gladly, for five minutes of yesterday’s time.
© Ray Cattie
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