We are always rushing to unmeaningful places, always doing unmeaningful things, talking about dreams, dreaming about talks. And after we wake to see the barren reality of our unaccomplished selves, we go back to dreaming and talking and doing and rushing and not-thinking. Never ending.
But when talks run out of topics (and they do) and dreams expire out of date (and they do, too), we then are forced to pull the brakes, to look around, and to find nothing but the ashes of our past, of our youthful ignorance, and the pieces of hazy memories of perhaps the one or two worthy snippets of our life. And that’s about all that is left of us.