It’s so easy not to know.

Yesterday, you said you couldn’t do this anymore, and I said of course you can. Of course you could. And we talked about it for a while, calmed down, thought clearly. Talked about all the beauty of the world--little sticky leaves in spring and such. You said yeah, it’s nice. It just gets so… And you shrugged a lot. It’s embarrassing, you said. Annoying. Chemicals sloshing around in your head. Hormonal imbalance, probably. Damned annoying. You got up, so I said, we’ll talk about it tomorrow, right? Yeah, you said. Tomorrow. Just you and me, though.

It’s so easy not to know.

That I didn’t know that I would have known that I could have known that I should have known that I did know. That I knew the future and closed the curtain on it. That I don’t know what I knew. That I don’t know what you knew. That it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway because you knew something (Do I know what you knew?)

It’s so easy not to know.

There are an infinite number of roads leading to an infinite number of paths leading to an infinite number of tiny overgrown trails through the woods that all lead to the same place. The only difference is the thickness of the mud on your shoes.

Up for criticism, as always. My avant-garde streak met my pseudo-existentialist streak. Someday I hope to be rid of both.