Deep Breath

I remember feeling the Sun without burning myself. I loved melting, and craved for more. Everyday, I used to watch the ceiling, and the fan had this habit of running in slow motion. Good old days, when we had nothing to worry about, just how to reach evening after we open our eyes. 

Memories.

I’m looking at them, from far. What will happen if I walk towards them? Pruning happens after certain age, and I’m looking at what is left. What if, instead I walk back, and then forward to the unknown?