progression.

Is realizing you’re becoming everything you always swore you’d never let yourself be.

pantheonbooks:

I cannot tell you how it was, 
But this I know: it came to pass 
Upon a bright and sunny day 
When May was young; ah, pleasant May! 
As yet the poppies were not born 
Between the blades of tender corn; 
The last egg had not hatched as yet, 
Nor any bird foregone its mate. 

I cannot tell you what it was, 
But this I know: it did but pass. 
It passed away with sunny May, 
Like all sweet things it passed away, 
And left me old, and cold, and gray.

by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)