We perpetually emerge from the

shadows of previous moments,

stepping recklessly into the harsh

illuminations of redundancy—reruns

embedded in our autobiography.

Time is not reclaimable.

We somehow expect our secrets are

hidden.

There's no repairing past sorrows

or surrendering ourselves to the

prison of regrets. We are pre-disposed

to clarity—consciously choosing

the present breath. We discover our

liberation, devoid of opposing

tendencies.

But I am an outcast and heed the

voices of my own wind.