There was really no other choice than to move forward. That was what movement was: no matter in what direction we started or finished, no matter how we coined phrases or felt regret, or despised the loss, or loved the gain; life was a march towards-or so it seemed.

Towards what?! To what end did we move? Even when we sat still, admiring the stars or enjoying a late autumn day; there still seemed to be a goal. we spent time considering consequences, always in the future; always something or somewhere else.

Always living in motion led to never looking at the past for answers, even as it faded into time immortal, forgotten or feigned. And so, we forgot what it was to live and existed rationally instead. We spent our time with probabilities and possible future outcomes instead of moving towards our dreams and desires, right and wrong, good and bad. And days passed.

We rarely considered the movement itself. We rarely considered the moment, or what it was we were moving towards, or even if we wanted it.