The day when something happens, a death, a life.
A ripping apart, a bringing together.
These things shape who we are.
Afterwards, we see.
Maybe more, sometimes less.
But mostly, just differently.
Connections, details and harmony between impossible things.
A lurid, yellow flower against a black sky.
We know what is meant to be, but it never is.
We want the world to be as we wish, as we saw it once before.
But there is no return from our one-way street.
Understanding the patterns, but not the whole picture.
Saying words that people want us to say, not knowing what they mean.
Being ourself, our new self, is against the rules.
The rules of the unaffected.
We are different.
They say we are strange, broken.
Only one can be right.
But we are left and they are right.
But left can not exist without right.
So are we right?
The answer to this concocted riddle,
Is within itself.