I get into a habit of walking backwards and into the past. Just for a walk, just to take a stroll through the old neighborhoods, maybe a sneak peak at a window, checking out how the memory lives. I don't want to go back, make the same mistakes again or somehow fix them. I don't want to relive them, I just like remembering. And more often than not, new details come back, new little tingles pop up and besides reminding me, shines a new light on it. Sometimes it makes me realise that there was nothing I could have done to make things go in a different direction. It gives me a spicy calmness, which is weird, but it does make me feel better. Because I have made a lot of mistakes in my life, and I have to live with them, but did them or not, it would not have changed a damn thing.
And then it's better.
From books:
Nobody listens anymore. I can't talk to the walls because they're yelling at me, I can't talk to my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough it'll make sense. And I want you to teach me to understand what I read.
I have to learn to let you go. Not to learn, just to let you go. I have to give myself permission to let you go, because, clearly, you let me go a while ago. I know I understand the concept of letting go, I’ve done that in the past. And I understand the benefits of letting you go. I just can’t seem to convince myself to allow myself to let you go. I think I just really like you. As a person, as a friend, as someone to hug and hold, climb a tree and drink a beer, share a story or eleven, open up and talk about what makes one vulnerable. Mostly I am finding it difficult to let you go, because to me, you are the concept of “hold my hand” and that is very precious to me. I know that this concept was birthed before your time and had another person attached to it. But it grew, developed and blossomed with you in mind. And I don’t think I want to lose a hope to ever have a chance of you holding my hand again. As you once promised you always will.
