Degraded memories ever present.
Their color muted by time.
Wafting into, and out of view.
A sombering dreamscape.
Missed chances, miscues, and missed opportunities.
Every path already defined.
It's penultimate destiny awash in unfulfilled dreams.
The past consumes the present.
The question I gazed back for now eludes me as much as the answer.
So I turn away;
A massive singularity of indefinite mass swirls here, unseen.
This event horizon has been my sanctuary for many years now.
Its gravity has grown exponentially.
I fear I cannot break free;
What if the defining moment I seek will only be defined by the struggle?
If we recognize a prison of our own making does that somehow make it less a prison?