I can hear them you know.
What they say.
As I take this old dirt road slowly, step by step, I hear them. I hear my name, whispered in the trees. The wind carries it up to the birds in the sky and leaks it down to the weeds below. Whispering my mistakes. The past I'm ashamed of. Even out here, I can't escape. My shame. My regrets. My past. It's a funny thing the past, for it never truly passes. It follows you, consumes you, takes over the future you once believed in. And what can you do? Truthfully, nothing. Even in my supposed silence, it follows. As the trees whisper, the wind spreads, and it takes roots in the weeds, I find I cannot forgive myself. So how can I expect the trees to do so? How can I expect YOU to do so? I can't. That's life I suppose.
Consumed.
And broken.