No one will ever know that I cleared the path of fallen branches from the storm.
No one will ever know that I ever came this way or be aware of the things I felt when the sun was there or the clouds came in.
No one will ever know the misery I felt, the depression and angst and then the hope and glimpse of happiness.
No one will know the terrible things I imagined, my obsessive perversions, my sheer delight in that.
No one will ever know how much I cared and dreamed and wanted and regretted. No one will ever know any of that, no matter what I say, what I write, the pictures I take, the people I tell and beg to listen.
All of that will be gone, like everything else. And none of it will ever have mattered.