Lesson

My memory
Distorts the picture of my history.
It is not so much for the sake of posterity,
But more of a desire so deep to spell.

To travel the roads of the past,
To contemplate at the crossroads of possibilities.
What might have been is strangely more clear,
Than what actually did.

Markers of time - minute, fortnight, year.
What do I opt as the right shell for my narrative?
All that I choose to remember and reveal,
Is only an eclipse of the absolute meaning.

What you see now, what is around you,
Is always only half the story.
All love is conditional,
The only time that matters is now.