Amnesia

 Sometimes we enter a room and we can't remember why we went in there.

Then we leave the room, thinking if we forgot it must not have been important.

Sometimes there's in inexplicable hurt inside, one we can't place, one that tries to find a reason to exist in memories. Grief is love without a place to go, and sometimes grief is also pain without a place to grow. Free-floating pain. And when you try to pull it out, like the loose thread of a sweater, you tug at things that should be better left alone. And hurt finds friends in the past. Hurt finds many roots, and moves at the soil of melancholy.

I want to forget a past I never lived. I want to have no heart for the thoughts of those who came before me, and those who wished me ill, and those who thought they had wiped me out, and those who might still think at least they got one over me.

I understand... and I go back in the room of my solitude, to try and remember what it is I needed to find.