Three hundred sixty five is a big number.

Oh it was stellar like a star, a constellation, a galaxy of burning gaslights. And love had gravity, influence, gave weight to things. And in the orbits of our hearts, we shared dreams and meanings and metaphors for reaching peaks that meant clearer ways to see. We lit fires against cold in the night and soaked smouldering ground in cool pouring rain. Oh yes, we thought, we’d change things.

Or, so it seemed at the time when I was small and weak.

I found out quick there was mass tucked in black matter, things that — at that point — didn’t matter. Not yet. But those missing pieces cast shadows like spells across our skin in the deep and in the dark. Did things neither one of us could expect or predict. Our instruments were made for other things and these new ways — they had no way to measure or gauge.

So it was sink and keep sinking. Drift and drift further from where I thought the middle was. It was break orbital patterns I’d been learning to define, and only after breaking, find out the reasons why.

The universe operates on rules I could not, at the time, define. Vibrations intwine in ways my eyes could not detect, in ways my ears would reject, in ways I would — having learned it too late — regret.

“Regret grows into learning,” someone (I forgot) once said.

Only because a life full of regets is not worth living. Loss on end without meaning. If I learn, I think I’ve gained something. And the gain can cut the pain like a blade through outer skin hardened by harsh wind.

The question really is — will I try to, want to, hope to come back again? Or have I learned that changing the world is a task that crushes the spirit underfoot and all I can hope for is some rest? Or will I offer up this spirit as a sacrifice to gods long dead, hoping that in the trampling, some one foot pauses to reconsider?

The answer is inherant in the flaws of the instruments I carry.

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