The following piece appears to be a reflection on memory, on an ended relationship or someone that was lost. The writer seems to have many confusing thoughts, almost existential questions about what memory is, how it works and what it means. It seems that they are processing everything that has happened, while trying to make sense of it. Also, they explain how they feel now, and how they wish they felt, which sets a nice contradiction expressing rationality behind these thoughts. Can you relate to their questions? Do you find yourself wondering about these things too?
How it is: The memory of you is like a scratch that never heals, always getting infected, accidentally touched, always stinging and reminding me it’s there. And no matter how much I try to take care of it, there’s always something that keeps it fresh. I confuse you with the memory of you, making you the source of my pain. But it’s just the memory.
My thoughts and questions: My body is not me, my mind is not me; but at the same time they are, simply not the me with you anymore, but the me that has had you in the past. You are part of the past: accepting this is what I struggle the most with. I constantly want you to be part of my present.
It feels weird, because memories are just weird, aren’t they? Don’t you ever think of something from your past and think: did that even happen? Was that me? How is the past part of me when it’s not the present? How can time be the treasurer of moments, yet move on every succeeding second to a new reality? What did the past leave me? Am I a result of my past, or is the past a result of me? And I ask myself these questions a lot, because you were and are important. But it’s strange because it seems as if you and I never happened, although I do see all the things you gave me, both physically and emotionally. So the memory of you... is it of you or of what you left me? Do we create memories through people or through lessons? What is the measuring unit of a memory? Are you simply someone from my past or are you what you offered me and taught me?
I simply cannot express into words what I’m thinking and am trying to say. All of this wondering and questioning is going to stay in my mind and not come out as it is truly. Never mind. I know for sure that you would understand me, with that brain wire that went from yours to mine.
How I wish it were: The memory of you is like a scar. It’s part of my skin, I can see it, I can touch it. It doesn’t hurt at all, and I don’t have to worry about it ever. I cannot forget it, but it cannot hurt me. And you are not the scar, you are not pain, you are the story behind the scar, a story imprinted on my skin.