Learning from History is bullshit. As soon as it's written, it's dead.
A memory: basically just a standing record of what will never happen the same way again.
What should I do when blindsided, and present reality begins to hurt? Misguided, the past looks comforting and full of promise. Happy pictures painted by the fact that I survived at all. The ache of ignorance feels numb by now.
Without a game plan, the uncontrollable nature of pain scares me into loving what seems real: My unattainable old self, dragged out in the current emotional downpour. I prop it up like a cardboard cut-out, as if a single point in time were solid enough to touch.
My memory bank clings to the current pain, equating the uncontrollable and unchangeable;
it clings to myopia, equating further change with pain.
It clings to what I know I've done before, while denying that the present moment is constantly passing away into feeble history. It denies that pain washes away, denies its choice to reapply. I keep pace with sadness as if it means standing still. But there's no respite in constant agitation.
I'm so backward. So tangled. But the stupid convoluted definitions can be cut away, to a basic understanding:
Understand that every reaction is uncontrollable. Every impression exists in the useless past.
Understand that every action is changeable. Each brink of the unknown is where potential lives.
Your personal history is bullshit. Don't bother remembering past where you put the keys.
A memory: basically just a standing record of what will never happen the same way again.
What should I do when blindsided, and present reality begins to hurt? Misguided, the past looks comforting and full of promise. Happy pictures painted by the fact that I survived at all. The ache of ignorance feels numb by now.
Without a game plan, the uncontrollable nature of pain scares me into loving what seems real: My unattainable old self, dragged out in the current emotional downpour. I prop it up like a cardboard cut-out, as if a single point in time were solid enough to touch.
My memory bank clings to the current pain, equating the uncontrollable and unchangeable;
it clings to myopia, equating further change with pain.
It clings to what I know I've done before, while denying that the present moment is constantly passing away into feeble history. It denies that pain washes away, denies its choice to reapply. I keep pace with sadness as if it means standing still. But there's no respite in constant agitation.
I'm so backward. So tangled. But the stupid convoluted definitions can be cut away, to a basic understanding:
Understand that every reaction is uncontrollable. Every impression exists in the useless past.
Understand that every action is changeable. Each brink of the unknown is where potential lives.
Your personal history is bullshit. Don't bother remembering past where you put the keys.
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