A Slowness.

There are times where the domains of your life assemble - pulled together by some apparently divine thread that you hope to have some infinite purpose. The trouble when microscoping these specifics is that they may not be as entirely coherent, or necessary, or extraordinary, as you might have originally hoped.

What if they are ordinary, or inappropriate?

It is possible, and possibly easy, to view perfection in imperfection. Appreciating that it is an imperfection is the first step, and feels like a stone pushing its way out of your eye socket to fall to the ground and roll away. It's gritty, and dirty, and unfortunately true.
Being aware of what you want or need makes this pixelated world even smaller.

When the outside world seems smaller, so too must the inside world.
Memories and nostalgia appeal to the wearisome minds of defeat and misplaced hope; disappointment reigns, and hope is found in misread, or misled opportunities and experiences. You can build new kingdoms from scratch with the seeds of hope, desperation, and futility, but these rarely bloom or bear any of the fruit you might have deluded yourself into believing you could harvest.

It is when you realise that the past is past and that the present or future are non-comparable that these walls erode, carefully, but destructively.
A barren wasteland is visible, where you must stand alone, and contemplate. The realisation that really, ultimately, you have to do this; you have to stand alone.

The world, sucked in. A moment of clarity where everything kind of...imploded.

"He would stare at empty chairs, think of the ghosts that once sat there, the ghosts who broke his heart. All the ghosts that broke my heart, the ghosts that broke his heart, all the ghosts that broke my heart, the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts the ghosts, the ghosts that broke my heart before I met you.

Lover, please, do not fall to your knees, it’s not like I believe in everlasting love".