000/XXX

feel constantly drawn to those surfaces too soft to avoid, too barren, pulled taught. let hindsight take form in the way it all just raises up (read: adheres, over and fucking over) compared to the rest of you, in the way that it's never quite left. 

hindsight be damned, you'll never admit that this is what shapes you into familiarity. you'll never admit that you feel this is the closest you'll get to actualization, the closest you'll be to feeling like yourself. never admit that this is nostalgia, this is reminiscing, this is the self-indulgent throwback you always talk so much about chasing. because, what does it make you, then? nothing you weren't already, right? explain away, it won't make a difference to you or anyone else.