Time is a strange thing… Why does a week sometimes feel like a month? Why does a few months sometimes feel like a year? Why does ten years sometimes feel like half of that?
Combine that with a long memory and a habit of sometimes being overly sensitive and depressed, and you’ve got yourself a life of self-reinforcing feelings of suffering and sadness. Every old memory feels like its brand new; every loss is daily accounted for and additive; every mistake and regret is demands constant rumination. Tell me: How can a heart stand such things and live?
As my last partner was breaking up with me, I was told to “Try not to be too hard on yourself.” The thing is, I really do. I try my damnedest, all the time. But every new experience makes it harder and harder.
These dreadful memories are sucking the sweet life out of me.
The sunshine of a late autumn afternoon washes away the depth of colour in the changing leaves and my pale grayness of feeling makes duller the vision of connectedness that I used to have in the world. Winter is coming, as they say, and I’m not sure how many more winters I can stand.
I’m still hopeful – its just not the hopefulness of youth. Instead, its a shallow feeling of hope. An almost laughably weak feeling that maybe I’ve still got time to change directions; that maybe I can once again feel like I’m the conductor of this train of life… The thing is, trains can’t turn around on their tracks and I’m not qualified to drive.