Memory isn’t a photograph. It’s a murmur in a dark room. A smell, a shift in light, the sudden ache when a song you forgot you loved finds you again. It arrives uninvited, but familiar—like someone who used to know you well.
I used to believe memory told the truth. But lately, I’m not so sure.
The more I revisit the past, the more it changes.
Not drastically, not all at once—but like a shoreline slowly pulled into new shapes by the tide. One day you notice the sand isn't where it used to be.
There are scenes I return to that feel real but never happened.
A conversation with someone who never said the right thing, but in my memory, they do.
A touch that never landed, yet still leaves warmth.
I don’t think that’s lying. I think that’s longing, trying to make sense of itself.
Sometimes, I miss the version of me that existed in those imagined moments.
The me who was loved better, understood more clearly.
And maybe that’s what memory really is: not a record, but a refuge.
A softer world where we rewrite what broke us—just enough to keep going.
The line between what happened and what we needed to happen is thin, and always fading.
And maybe it’s not the accuracy that matters.
Maybe it’s the emotional truth underneath it all.
Because even a false memory can heal something real.
Somewhere between memory and imagination is where I still go to find myself.
And though I know the map is blurred, I keep returning.
Not to remember—but to feel something that once felt like home.
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