Does it get better or worse?

More of the same, but with a lesser body. So worse. But then, the understanding. What was once considered important is now irrelevant. A beauty is seen in the experiences. In being. And that, surely, is much better. Worse for all the things I have missed. The past is speckled with beauty out of my reach. I learned nothing from these moments besides learning to fear the future. Better, then, for finally trusting myself, carefully. Better, for still being here, for still daring to dream. But wretched the mind, who wants the best of both.

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