Everytime i have turned the page he re-enters my life as awkward as postscript

Everyone breathes in air, but it's a wise person who knows when to use that air to speak and when to exhale in silence.

Or is this how humans survive, shrugging off history, immersing themselves in the moment?

Once I heard my mother say that each of us lives in a separate universe, one we have dreamed into being. We love pople when their dream coincides with ours, the way two cutout designs laid one on top of the other might match. But dream worlds are not static like cutouts; sooner or later they change shape, leading to misunderstanding, loneliness and loss of love.

Often, others see you, as you see yourself

But maybe as I get older, I begin to see beauty where I least expected it before.

Everytime i have turned the page he re-enters my life as awkward as postscript