Regrets.

I tell my therapist howpeculiar and specific myfears are,he assures me they aren'talone,I tell him I wake up in the middle of the night,worrying about ageing,that someday, I'll turn 50,with regrets written betweenthe lines of my palm,I tell him how the thoughtof future keeps me awakeand how terrified I am ofopening my eyes every morningbecause I don't want a good dreamto vanish,he tells me, over and over again,that I'm young and I have plentyto look forward to,I tell him, again and again,that I live more in pastthan the present,I tell him, how my mindshouts and yells and rantsinside but my heart cannever fully make sense of the words,he asks me to probe,to take deep breaths,to breathe in and out,to let answers come fromwithin,so I sit, in the dark,breathing in and out,spelling out hope besidemy name,and wondering if some nightwhen I'm 50, I wake upand don't cry out of regrets.
Tune for the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BS0G1KK8H6M
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