Why is it that the things in my past which hurt, still hurt? Why don't they scab over and scar, like a normal person's (who can laugh at their follies)? Instead they flush me with pain anew upon remembrance. Have I simply lived too little? Remembered too often? (Sensitized myself like the subways' squeaks which cringe me deeper, deeper with each passing.) Am I simply always picking the wound? I try so hard lately to pick up and move on, to fill my time. Fill it, fill it, fill it! With new multi-sensory memories, and other lives lived through books and films, and such. And yet, still! An accidental visit to an unhappy place in my mental geography leaves me immobilized there. Seeped in the horror of the moment.
This is my primary tragedy: I want always to remember so I can always understand... the unthinkable things some people do...but I am raw, raw, raw...It was so hard being a child. (Nostalgia, what a truly stupid thing.)
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