The other day seems so far away. So long gone, so much like history and it is. His story that is. His story that haunts him, that lingers and holds on to his coat tails and taints his victories.
The other day seems so impossible. Joy and love no longer felt by heart. Instead all that remains is pain and grief felt by the body. The body that cries and weeps, because it’s soul refuses to.
The other day seems so dark and hopeless. Yet he still walks his walk and still talks his talk as if the other day never happened. Though I know it pains him, and tears him and wounds him.
The other day seems so much like a dream. He was there, and now he is not. He was in the moment, and now he’s gone. He could do anything, and now he can only remember.
The other day seems to never want to leave. The other day seems to want to kill his joy and life. The other day seems to still be today, even though it was the other day.