At the time,
We thought we were doing
Exactly what we were supposed to do,
Given the circumstances.
Ain't that always the way?
We think we're in love...
We think we're justified...
We think that one step must necessarily
Follow another...
We think life is supposed to make sense...
Existence has no obligation to make sense.
We do what we can to understand it,
But, even if we figure a part of it out,
there's always one more thing that we don't understand...
Unending fields of things that we don't understand...
The mystery lives on in our own ignorance,
Self-imposed or not...
We can imagine this or that...
We can convince ourselves that our thoughts are reality,
That our vivid imaginings are tangible things with height, depth, width, and history...
In our vanity, we worship our own creations...
We give tithe to them...
Thoughts are like ghosts...
Unwritten journal entries...
That letter you wrote, but didn't send...
Some are burned away,
Some are stored away in boxes...
That slight smell of mildew and old books...
Memory, an imperfect and uncredible storyteller...
We do what we can with whatever we find...
