I find myself remembering moments that, if I were truly honest, weren’t all that beautiful. The pain wasn’t soft then; it was jagged, cutting through everything I thought I knew. Yet somehow, when I look back now, those same moments are wrapped in this nostalgic haze, like a filter over a blurry photo. I’ll see the cracks in the walls of my life, the broken places that didn’t heal right, but somehow those jagged edges shine like they’re meant to.
It’s strange, how memory can romanticize the wreckage. There are stories I tell myself now, stories of what I was, what I could have been, what I once felt. I twist the pain into something worth remembering, because without that, what’s left to cling to? We all do it, don't we? We curate our past, pulling out the sweet parts like carefully selected pieces of a puzzle. We try to forget that the puzzle was incomplete, that some pieces were lost, or worse, intentionally hidden.
I wonder sometimes if I’ve ever truly known the whole truth of a moment, or if I’ve just convinced myself that the story I’ve crafted around it is enough to call it my own. Because what else can we do with a past that keeps slipping through our fingers? We turn it into a story we’re proud of. Even if it means taking the broken pieces, those sharp, painful edges, and polishing them until they shine like something that could be loved.
I think that’s the real trick of memory—it lets us rewrite the story. It lets us soften the blows, make the scars look like they were never deep, like they were always part of the plan. And maybe they were, maybe it was all part of the story that needed to be told. I tell myself that. I let memory do its thing, because what else is left to hold on to, when everything else slips away?
It’s like staring into a mirror that tells you what you want to see. It’s not perfect, not true—but it’s enough to let you feel something. It’s a lie, but it’s beautiful. And that’s all we ever really need, isn't it?
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