I saw her wrinkles and was struck by sadness. Not out of pity, but rather, envy. She is there, I am here. But when I get to where she is, will I be and have and know what she is and has and knows?
Yet it’s not even that I want exactly what she has or — heaven forbid — wished I was her. Her life and self and all they possess are hers alone. I have my own version, some bits obtained and others still imagined. But the desire to be in that stage of life is, I suppose, the draw. I have stagnated, and although ready for the next chapter, am unable to turn the page. In fact, it would seem the next pages have been torn out entirely and a new set put in their place.
More of the same.
There was a part of me that was already regretting — or perhaps, lamenting — the present as viewed from the future. When it would be, as it were, the past.