To This Day

To the day that was filled with hope was also filled with distress. To the day that lingered in possibility and truth, it also lingered in deep longing and lies. To the day that happened so quickly, also ended so slowly. To the day that seemed to nurture myself also seemed to harbor deep ambivalence. To the day that reached its peak so early on, also plummeted in spirit in every other instance. To the day that made me so happy, also made me feel so crestfallen. What is a day? Is it something made of hours, or maybe minutes or even the seconds that divide it? Is this day really that different from the other days that precede it? If it is not, then something has to be done. What should be done to fix it? To this day, I still need to figure this out.


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