“Almost,” the quiet sentinel of uncharted realms, where wishes become like fireflies dancing in the twilight of our yearning, casting a glow upon the silhouettes of our unattained desires. It is a word that lingers, etched upon our hearts like the fading ink of a love letter never sent, a token of the times we dared to dream but were held back by the gravity of reality.

In the gardens of life, “almost” grows like a vine, winding its way through the tangled branches of our aspirations, seeking out the light of what could be, while casting shadows upon the blossoms of our achievements. It is the quiet rustle of leaves, whispering of opportunities missed, and the gentle hum of bees, echoing the sweet nectar of potential never tasted.

When “almost” dances upon our tongues, it sings of ephemeral embraces, of sunsets that slipped away before we could share them with the ones we love, and of the unspoken words that gather, like dust, in the corners of our souls. It is a word that cradles the tears of unrequited love and the smiles of a future that never came to be, painting a portrait of dreams suspended in the limbo between longing and surrender.

As we traverse the landscape of our existence, the echoes of “almost” accompany us like a haunting refrain, reminding us of the fragile balance between the steps we took and those that never left a footprint in the sands of time. It is the lingering aroma of a banquet never savored, the faintest glimmer of a horizon never reached, and the unyielding specter of potential that drifts, like a phantom, through the chambers of our hearts.

And in the quiet hours, when we find ourselves adrift in the sea of our memories, we are visited by the wistful ghost of “almost,” the tender harbinger of the unfulfilled. It is then that we come to understand the paradoxical beauty of this bittersweet word, a reminder that even in the midst of our deepest regrets, there lies the promise of dreams yet to be realized, and the ever-lingering hope that one day, “almost” will give way to “finally.

Thomas Slatin, Only The Moon Understands The Beauty Of Love


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