Unfinished portrait

I walked the winding way down your memories. We live in the age of perpetual documentation - a blessing for the socially inept. Every abstract gives insight, but I crave the full portrait, you in your every shade and hue. I wish to know you better than breathing, but I fail even to take notice of where the edges of my posters line up. And I put them there. What a shame, what a shame, what a shame. When will I grow good at being a person? How could I ever fill in the yawning cracks? Anhedonia warps my mind and my memories, but something remembered shines through - thoughts of those dear to me, occupying me from dawn to the witching hour. At last, rays light the gray horizon. Maybe I’ve a reason after all.