The past is a room seen from outside,
with a one-way door, immovable;
I tried to whisper across the divide
but my truths then were not provable.

I watched the days wearing thin,
exchanged for worries worn on my brow;
Choosing to let so little light in
until knowing the things I know now.

My story, at last, has been laid flat
by the wisdom I’ve accumulated;
of discovery I was always where I was at
and feeling so frustrated.

All along I held the design,
as flawed as it may have been;
All the sorrows are still mine
now I’ve seen all the things I’ve seen.

Written for the W3 weekly prompt #172 using the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

Énouement n.
the bittersweetness of having arrived here in the future, finally learning the answers to how things turned out but being unable to tell your past self.

French énouer, to pluck defective bits from a stretch of cloth + dénouement, the final part of a story, in which all the threads of the plot are drawn together and everything is explained. Pronounced “ey-noo-mahn.”