Listen Linda

What If?

What if I could go back in time to rehearse a memory?

Like it was a picture for only me to see.

And if I told you how I felt that we were one in the same.

And the choice of humility is a point we often miss?

What if this was simple?

Let’s uncomplicate the masses and attempt to break their rose-colored glasses.

But it’s not enough to sublicate the truth from the false. You got to twist the wrist first, before you scold the heart.

Then what if I was selfish. And I want you all to myself. What is there to gain in this survival from what all that’s left.

But I’m no longer playing games now. All this folly must stop. You’re not the only one without the ability to talk.

But words go interrupted and our minds often stop the fragile line everyone else likes to mock.

What if I told you what you wanted me to say?

That, our choices often lead to misinterpreted serendipity. And those chances are more like that familiar similarity.

What if all this noise, this nonsense is like static in the air. Turn it off it’ll finally disappear. And to idle here too long will make a clock obviously wrong.

What if words were actions to only fall on deaf ears? That would overlook and overthink the point of it all.

But it’s not funny anymore. This silent joke. This prank. The clock was reset. This memory now a blank.

So what if I was different. And you were just like me. Then maybe it’s the story that is only meant to be.

Let me help it make sense?

 Words weave a deep personal journey through memory, perception, longing, and transformation. This isn’t just a collection of thoughts, it’s like a heartbeat suspended in time, pulsing with the weight of introspection.

With this idea of rehearsing a memory, framing it like a private picture, I suggest yearning to preserve something fleeting, to hold onto a moment in its purest form before time distorts it. I like to think it speaks to the human desire for control over the past—if only to relive what was, or to reshape how it is remembered.

There is a contrast between humility and selfishness that creates tension, a silent battle between vulnerability and possession. I like to think that I acknowledge the impulse to want someone entirely, yet question what remains when the world is stripped down to survival and loss. I feel there is honesty there in that admission—the realization that yearning and self-interest are intertwined. As humility can sometimes be overlooked, the metaphor of “twisting the wrist before scolding the heart” I feel leaves a raw expression, It’s visceral, and evocative how life forces us to reckon with pain before clarity can emerge.

Then, I am unravelling perception: the rose-colored glasses shattered, illusions dismantled, forced to see things as they truly are. The static of external chaos, the suffocating over-analysis, all feeding into weariness of words that never quite land where they should.

As the clock resets, I’m expressing that the memory fades-a stark finality, leaving space for transformation. If the past is blank, then what remains is possibility. And suddenly “what if” morphs into an invitation rather than a lament.