Writer, writer, write me a word...

or two, or three, or as many as it takes to write my present down, as if it were a red carpet for my past to shine on. It helps not, alas, that the red of the carpet is not my color, a secret I suspect my future has discovered. Is there hope, then, that my past will adorn my present, or will it stomp my present till it is worn and tattered, and unable to ever know its color. My future is older and wiser, and gets more so each day. Will it someday become weary of the burden if it carries the colorless hopes in perpetuity?