Are we born tiny and grow up or do we crumble away slowly with age?
As if parts of me choose to linger around certain memories, reluctant to move, like a child gaping at a toy he can't have. They pull back with need. I walk with caution, trying not to unearth a hidden memory. I walk into the desolate sands of dead habit where the only acceptable emotion is indifference. The mounds of dry earth keep shifting shapes but stay the same. I am free, alone and happy. But sometimes when I least expect it, it rains. And when it rains, it pours.