Quatrain out of "Lines Composed Over Three Thousand Miles from Tintern Abbey"
Nothing will be as it was
a few hours ago, back in the glorious past
before our naps, Back in that Golden Age
that drew to a close sometime shortly after lunch.
This stanza painfully reminds me of the moments I have, that we all have, when in a single instant we fudge up. It takes less than a millisecond to alter the course of a relationship, life, and ideal. Of course, that same second possesses the ability to illuminate a truth, moment of compassion, or secure a friendship, but I find discussing the element and meaning of chaos to be more fun.
That moment of change is the one before you realize your breaks have no intention of working during rush hour traffic. It is the moment you acquire a case of word vomit and fall victim to passion, rage, etc. Once those precious collections of characters and syllables fall from one's lips, circumstances change. Worlds dissolve. All other arrangements of characters are rendered useless. You might be left lifeless, a victim, a criminal, and there is no physical possible way to return to the second before the incident occurred. This stanza references the realizations one has to how perfect the imperfections of their lives were, and will never, ever be again.
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