the sentient among us know the differences behind the tuesdays and wednesdays and the thursdays and the days that follow from those, repeating the same names every seven of those days but never repeating the content, the form, the delivery, the errors and the successes. each new day is won and lost and born and reborn, packaged in seven names, catalogued by numbers of months and years
crevices form beneath our feet, hollow descents into dark chasms that menace our every step. we tread lightly, but sometimes we run and sometimes we ease into gentler gaits, and some of us fall and some of us trip and some of us glide with bliss, having found the happy formulae and balance in times that have demanded more of us than we were prepared to give
and on each step, whether the next be your best or your worst or your last, on each step there weighs the sum of all those past days (and we sometimes wonder why here or there or nowhere) but it all evens out, and others see us but can't see what it is that makes us, that hates us and that loves us, but it's all just as well. sometimes we have to let it all go and forget that these days it's all we can do to keep our chins up and gaze out and find a connection that could somehow comfort us
and the days they demand their own sacrifices, they demand the decisions and revisions that would otherwise spite us and surround us and demand the end of us, were we not given another chance, every time, every step, one more chance, one more chance. there is the bite, that for every decision not taken, for every step forsaken, we had a chance, and we lost it.
that is the tragedy: that we never have no choice.
