Death is an Asshole

I am a Feminist and I do not Hate Men

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Memories, the assholes

It is worrisome to see that one tiny photograph can impact nerves to no end. I mean from one end to another and then back. It is complete idiocy that runs through your neurons. I think our brain likes the fact that it can wreak such utter havoc through sight. And smell. And touch.

There is a ticking time bomb in each of us. Some of us can suppress it better than others. Those of us who know no better fall into the trap and push the red button time and again without learning from mistakes. It is a little bit like forgetting to switch on the mosquito repellant. You know what pain is when the errant mosquito relishes the taste of your blood. The next time I will be wise we think. Then the welts fade, the pain subsides and one fine day you are cocky and forgetful again.

Memories are like the bullies who wouldn't stop throwing chalk at you. Some just glance by you. Some you dust off. Then there are some that hit you in the eye and you are in blinding pain for quite a while.

What about good memories you say? Well, I think all memories hurt a little. It is made up entirely of the past. You will always yearn for a double check, a look back, a time machine or oblivion. Memories are just rude shocks you did not expect from the expensive iron.

I may be cynical or just depressed, but when I wake up tomorrow I will still feel the same. What we feel is the absolute truth for us at every moment. My truth just makes more sense to me than yours.