I have been in this state of mind a lot lately. My mind meanders carelessly into the past, seeking something I do not understand or possibly even need. I try not to dwell in the past, but people close to me insist I can hardly help it. Such is my wont.
There may lie unrequited dreams, some things not said, or some things that should not have been said. One reason or the other pulls me back and I try to turn back time. All that the exercise gives me in return is melancholy. I hate it. I want to be free and funny, maybe like the characters in my books. I hate maudlin tones even if they are my own. Then sometimes I feel the characters I have built are only a cover up, because I am somewhat embarrassed to let my real self out.
My memories are divided into various segments: of a protected childhood, of inquisitive adolescence, of the first notion of love and its immediate dismissal, or even of the dark fear ahead of every university exam. What may have been dreadful then feels endearing now. What was ridiculous then feels precious now. What was poignant then feels amusing now.
Every now and then, one of these memories returns to haunt me. I feel torn between the need for a reparation of the past and an obligation towards the future. Maybe it is best to stand still and allow it to pass. For all I know, it might be a matter of time before I am able to wear the garb of indifference. In the meantime, I have the right to resent these memories, if not the power to resist them.
There may lie unrequited dreams, some things not said, or some things that should not have been said. One reason or the other pulls me back and I try to turn back time. All that the exercise gives me in return is melancholy. I hate it. I want to be free and funny, maybe like the characters in my books. I hate maudlin tones even if they are my own. Then sometimes I feel the characters I have built are only a cover up, because I am somewhat embarrassed to let my real self out.
My memories are divided into various segments: of a protected childhood, of inquisitive adolescence, of the first notion of love and its immediate dismissal, or even of the dark fear ahead of every university exam. What may have been dreadful then feels endearing now. What was ridiculous then feels precious now. What was poignant then feels amusing now.
Every now and then, one of these memories returns to haunt me. I feel torn between the need for a reparation of the past and an obligation towards the future. Maybe it is best to stand still and allow it to pass. For all I know, it might be a matter of time before I am able to wear the garb of indifference. In the meantime, I have the right to resent these memories, if not the power to resist them.
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