So there is something heavy in the air, there is something heavy in our hearts. With every look, every word, we hesitate on spilling the beans. I'd like to spill the beans too, spill it everywhere, anywhere, all over. There'd be too many beans to keep back, all scattered around. There is a longing in our hearts, there is a crack where it can't be mended. In the crack, memories and thoughts are stashed and wedged in it tightly, safely, secretly. I like to consider alternatives and plan an escape route just in case. The alternative routes are an escape. The escape is alternative.
My mind whirrs on the impossibles, the possibilities, the could-have-beens, the hypothetical questions. But so what. What's the point. I think I've completely missed the point.
