Everywhere I look, there are traces and shadows.
Traces of the man I once was, shadows of the man I must one day leave behind.
But memories are often bitter frauds, plying us with regrets that were built solely upon mundane moments. Ones that distracted us through much of the day as we did our very best to cope.
And those second chances so often longed for? They’d likely have changed nothing at all.
Except, perhaps, which disappointments we might then harbor.
Traces and shadows, together, may well be our one true legacy. But neither will ever allow for a full accounting of the breadth and the depth and the weight of the self that once stormed the earth.
Even one with regrets.
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