Though we try to run, the dispossessed souls of those we left behind tar our legs with memory. Regret is a mire. We slog on, aiming for that distant glow of salvation, but it is so easy to look down, look back, at what is and what was, at the failures and missed chances, the misjudgements and the willful ignorance. A darkness so dense it clogs the eyes. Blinded, there are so few to carry us on. The only ones who do are the callous and the cold, not once caring on who they step, clawing forward over the rest of us, gazes fixed on that distant, unreachable light.
Paddy Dobson
2nd October 2023