Youth is arrogance; aged is remorse. At thirty-five years of age, I feel stuck between both. Who am I to reject love when I've tried so many times and failed? Who am i to accept love when I know it's imperfect? But who am I to expect perfection? And who am I to settle for something that I know can be so much better? Rather than being arrogant or remorseful, I am both -- always compressed by the urgency of time, trying to hurry, knowing I'm slowly turning to dust; yet, trying to admire the neglected surface upon which I fall.
Alas, perhaps I have no surface to land. I'm but a speck of dust forever falling among the cavernous atmosphere of recycled space; I'm hurrying only to orbit the same space and time -- not too dissimilar from our hazy blue planet, forever falling among the void of wars, peace, famine, and feast. We are both arrogant and remorseful. If only we could choose one misery the others might seem like happiness. And I might see remorse as evidence of a conquered arrogance_
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