Inner Monologue

The following kind of ties in with the previous post.  Just needed to get some things off my chest and on to some paper.  Always a good outlet for anything.

Disappointment looms.

Why must it be the same thing everytime?

What you say is all about you,

When the matter only concerns myself.

A different day and the same dispute.

This piece of paper means nothing in my eyes

But means the world to you.

Vicarious living shines on the surface,

But fades with the hands of time.

For some, success is measured between the pages of a book.

For others, it is merely a reflection of one’s happiness in life.

An accomplishment, yes.

A definition of one’s self, hardly.

Regret will come later down the road,

But are we not taught to live without regret?

If I choose to live in the present, how can regret find me?