Broken promises still have merit. We need them more than we know. What we first find when analyzing them is the regret of a choice made and a goal unmet. We compare that outcome to the prospect of absolute success.
For example: we often perceive ourselves as being full of potential and failing to achieve. But think about it. The reverse is a lot more likely. Maybe we weren't meant for anything, and only our fear of failure tricks us into being better than we really are.
Somehow I feel better looking at the problem that way. Like maybe all the grinding and scraping isn't for nothing, after all.
I swore I wouldn't let feelings of powerlessness turn into apathy.
I try to weave right and wrong into my personal narrative, but I can't help thinking that all the joy and suffering I'll ever impart on the world exists in tiny bubble of time that collapses within a few measly decades of my death.
We build, and build, and build. Why?
What difference does it make whether or not it falls before or after the end of our lives? It falls. Always. Knowing that, I don't know why I go on building. But I do. Almost all of us do.
Pan out, and we are a green-brown flame, cold and low, burning across the surface of the earth.
Pan in, and individual lives start to take shape. But you can only hear them when you block out the din of a million other voices, each every bit as important as your own.
But that's what line-breaks are for. We can start again.
I swear I'll be more than I was. And who knows. Maybe I will be this time.