Yesterday, the very word brings the sadness of lost childhoods that you cannot escape.
The pull is strong, relentless, unfoolable and inevitable. Oh you can run, boy you can run, but the pull will get you in the end. Scared, not me, not while I can run.
To stop and think and face the child, is the most difficult thing. It hurts more that you know hurt could hurt, is more lonely than you know lonely could be. The wound is an abyss, an endless void.
Somehow life goes on. My head explodes and we carry on scared.
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