I find that I am filled with jumbled up thoughts & countless questions. My incessant thinking & over-analyzing could very well be the death of me, because what spills out somehow eats me on the inside, slowly. Pardon the clutter of words & phrases.

I want to forget, but could it also be that all I want is to secretly remember? Everything was surreptitious. I was ignorant. Life would be nicer if it could be seen as a reel of film. Rewind back to the priceless moments, pause, & stare. Play it again, countless times, to your heart’s content. Stop at the scenes that left you bewildered. Analyze, realize. Fast forward past the sadness, toward the parts that finally shed light. That would be amazing, wouldn’t it? But what if the scenes were all a mixture of the priceless moments, the confusing parts, the sadness, & that faint spark of clarity? No amount of pausing would do. Perhaps it’s just right that life be viewed as a series of unexpected twists & turns; a showroom of emotions, a cluster of people that continue to stand out.

Remembering doesn’t mean wallowing in the sorrows of the past, or basking in it’s joys. But that tug, that painful tug you feel whenever you remember - what does it signify? What is it trying to tell you? In your mind, you’re in constant denial, insisting on what you want. But you’re blinded by what is. What is, not what should be. So I think instead of constantly voicing out your desire to forget, you should do nothing but let loose & remember. Remember even if you cry. Remember even if it hurts. Remember everything, everyone. Because once you grow tired of remembering, you finally find yourself forgetting. Right now I feel that I’m barely there. But the goal is constant. I have my fair share of rewinding. Rewinding, pausing, drowning. Then reality slaps me. & I move toward the forward button. Slowly, though. Then again I stop. I decide on stop because I can take as long as I want, staring, analyzing. Pause, stop, rewind, forward. What does it take to rise again?

I’m still unmoved, because of the reruns of the moments in life I choose to watch, & my gaze remains steady. But should one endure all this? Would it be possible to evenly sort the mess out? Or has it always been that way? One writes, the other barely blinks. One loves, one lives. Lives in oblivion. This self-inflicted torture renders one weak yet inspired. Oh, the irony of it all.