Sometimes, I can’t hear myself. I talk, and I talk, and I talk, but I don’t listen. I tell myself an awful lot of good advice that I let fall to the wayside. I can deal with it tomorrow. Except, as we all know, tomorrow never comes. And then I’m left sitting here wondering why I never listened.

This is nothing new. I have always been this way. Always already not listening. Not hearing.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

I do read. I read a lot. I take in all the various emotions, the ways in which character say, do, feel; I read their own internal communications and, sometimes, apply them to my own void. My personal interface: the one who does, and the one listens. These two bodies do not always coexist. Oftentimes, they don’t.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

What I mean to say, what I really mean to say, is that it’s almost Christmas. It’s almost Christmas, and I miss them. Those I’ve lost. The ones who have passed this year, and the ones who have passed in years’ past. And it’s difficult to really listen to my favourite Christmas carols, it’s difficult to hear them, because I haven’t listened to my own sorrow.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. 


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