I’m addicted to the past.
It’s like reading someone else’s story now, not mine, not ours.
I poured over K’s old blog. I can see the appeal objectively now, following the shared drama like a weekly soap. We were ridiculous, there were so many comments, I really understand now why we drew such a following for a time. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, I’m not, I have the good sense now to be embarrassed. That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the entertainment for entertainments sake. A poorly written novel can still have it’s moments. It was still a better love story than Twilight.
Really I’m killing time. Between purging and packing I give myself moments of respite, and bury myself in this strange yet familiar history. It’s mostly foreign to me now. My heart has forgotten all of the anguish, it healed, even though I never thought it would. Not just thin scabs, but hardened scars, fibrous and strong, protecting all of those vulnerable spots that used to bleed so freely.
Time, it seems, does indeed heal all wounds.