I get no comfort from knowing this problem is not solely mine. That everyone around me struggles (in some way) to let the past fly.
The more free of it I become, the more I feel the remaining weight bear down. Pushing me. Holding me. Burying me in the ground.
I could choose like others to live less aware. Go about my days pretending it’s not there.
I could settle for a place neither good nor bad. I could live comfortably. Taking a much easier path.
But there I would watch myself slowly deflate until one day I’d wake to realize…
It’s too late.