Someday, someone will uncover this,
tucked within the undisturbed pages,
eagerly waiting to be discovered.
Long-forgotten tales dissipate with change, vanishing into the currents of time. I ponder the fate of ours. One day, I might deliberate on meticulously documenting the events, while on other days, I push away the notion of piecing together those moments. They're akin to holding a delicate butterfly, with just enough tension to grasp and enough slack to let go. But in reality, what do I truly possess when my hands are empty?
Could it be deemed a windfall, pronounced above all?
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