It is not a matter of remembering; forgetting is the real danger (sometimes). I am not a fool, nor a fixator, I do not dwell in the past, but the past dwells within me, and there is nothing one can do about that. I AM a thinker and a liver, and I’m very closely involved with my self, so I can’t simply tear me away from what I am, or what I’ve been. I do not lie in my bed thinking about what was, replaying events that may have bruised my young soul, but I pick apart the present, and consequently find pieces of the past; pick apart the present, and look for faults and agendas in all of my friends and lovers, as if each person were just another incarnation of the devil.
It is feeling the lash of dominance in ‘caring’ fingertips, or seeing the selfish fascination in ‘adoring’ eyes, it is this ghost of constance that whispers in my ear as I try to drift off, not a ghost of the past.
Not to appear ungrateful for the heights to which my feelings can reach, I am luckier than many… But my highs and my lows are so hard to love, and I love like the world is ending, all the time. I live in such a dark place, that there is much less pleasure than pain, and I only wish (sometimes) that I could feel less.