Thoughts of you

My thoughts of you keep falling into their accustomed places, so often now that I'm beginning to wonder if what I'm feeling anymore is real, or if it's just a habit. There's no way to really know, you see, and that's a truth I've come to realize with some dismay... that the memory of life isn't organized the way you or I or any of us would want it to be - like a story, with a beginning and an arc and a moral, and characters that grow and develop, and the resolution of conflict, and then ending with a lesson well learned, leaving plenty of room for a sequel. It's mostly just this chaotic mess that only happens to seem like a poem every now and then, and we want so much for it to be a poem that we learn to lie to ourselves. And from there we build our delusions, and wreak the inescapable havoc of hope.