I think I remember you. You were part of what I pretended to be in a distant life.

It was all something else back then. Not new, but not old either. Just, plain. Predictable in the shade of mediocrity. It wasn’t something I would share, or reminisce about if I could avoid it.

But how often can we avoid the past? We tend to drag it behind us, at once desperate to let it go but afraid to never have it to fall back on. It gives us comfort, knowing we have something to blame our mistakes on, or attribute our successes to-other than the present and ourselves, or not- as the case may be.

But where were we? Together? Telling fortunes and tales that we create from nothing more than a fractured memory. It’s easy to recall what didn’t really happen, there’s nothing attached to it to hurt us, to remind us, to make us think. We can just be free in the irresponsible and irrelevant imagination of ease. A small price to pay for freedom.

If we start to read the text as it is really written, then we start to address that which we don’t want read.

That we don’t want shared.

That we don’t want acknowledged, for acknowledgement is admission and the price for admission is reality.

And none of us want that.

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