I miss the life I could have had.

I miss the life I used to have, or at least the things and moments that could have become something beautiful. Forest walks, playing music by myself on the old wooden bench among soft green hills, brushing horses, and flying kites in the autumn sky when the fields were full of golden stubble. I miss sitting in a small, dim room with a friend singing Irish songs to the few chords I could play on my guitar. I miss how freely I could breathe in the moments I forgot the 95% crap my life was then. I miss girls’ nights spent writing insane stories, watching fantasy movies, making up names, and dreaming of space ships. Winter was full of backyard sled-hills made from buckets of snow, summer was stargazing, family singing in three or four languages at the same time by the fire, and listening to stories on cassette in the gloomy light of glow sticks. I miss wooden sword fights and walking around the garden while hooping. I miss the unspoken promises of adventure, of a life full of jugglers and stories and wandering bards, of science fiction and wonderful worlds, of walking the edge of nature and following stony creeks below thick overgrowth many times more. I can’t remember how to get to those places, I wouldn’t know how to find the ones who would have walked with me back then, how we would sink back into who we once were, who we could have been. I want to cry every time I see the hills, the autumn forests, the open space rolling in waves of green and gold and blue, unlike the flat open landscapes I can go to now. And still I know that what I miss is a fantasy. The songs have been sung, people moved on, the old market shrunk to a joke of itself, creeks have been lost and forgotten, and the horses I knew have grown too old to carry anyone. But we could have had something beautiful. I miss having someone who would reminiscence with me, to write and paint these unspoken dreams of where we were headed for a few short years.

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