Sometimes I feel like my memory is its own separate world and all the people in it go about their memory lives while I’m stuck here in the present.
I have a feeling they all get together from time to time. They sit around and swap stories and the tales get all tangled up, and when I try to follow one thread from beginning to end I can’t because they’re all intertwined.
Sometimes I think they do it on purpose so I won’t be able to tell them apart any longer, so they stop meaning so much to me, so I’ll leave them alone. Or maybe they do it for my own good, shut me out and cut me off, because they know how much I’d want to stay if I could.