It used to be easier

It used to be easier
to live with the worries that hung over our head,
the dreams that haunted us to sleep,
the troubles that we brought upon ourselves via others’,
the indecisiveness that somehow made things better.

It used to be easier
to live in the moment with its optimistic view of future
the comfort of not having to grow up
(in the cursed sense of the phrase),
the hours that hastily simmered
into the corner of an eye above a beautiful smile.

It used to be easier
to talk about love without love,
to feel too much love to talk,
to look for things that were not meant to be found,
to forget things that we would one day regret not having remembered.

It used to be easier
to feel alive, for a single moment of livelihood
was enough to expand across time,
keeping us busy, pushing blood through the veins.
Whatever happened, we knew what we had,
and were happy with only so little.

It used to be easier
to be someone else,
always asking, “Who am I?”
in a curious manner – or, rather, careless,
because there was no I yet
for the question to take itself seriously.

Now is not harder than before.
Only that we will always be longing for
the unknown of a known past,
and the trajectory of a past unknown.


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