To the “Sober”*
Memories are bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces. Experience taught me that even the most precious memories cannot fade with the passage of time.
“Isn’t it funny how the memories you cherish before a breakup can become your worst enemies afterwards? The thoughts you loved to think about, the memories you wanted to hold up to the light and view from every angle–it suddenly seems a lot safer to lock them in a box, far from the light of day and throw away the key. It’s not an act of bitterness. It’s an act if self-preservation. It’s not always a bad idea to stay behind the window and look out at life instead, is it?”
― A. Condie, First Day
“The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net.
They don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn’t divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion, a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal that climbs or descends burning in your bones.”
― Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day
*Sober was used instead of a name