Words Unsaid

|52| Through The Looking Glass

I only cherish relationships in my memories, when they're long past over, and never in the moment. Partly because, perhaps, I'm not grateful for people, until they are gone, but mostly because nothing is as sweet and as glossed over as memories.

There are days when my mind loves slipping inside the blanket of self pity, sipping a piping hot cup of nostalgia and binging on the sweet, sweet past. It's hardly ever happy, but it's comfortable.

So when my past relationship is dangling in front of me, beguiling me to visit it, I helplessly give in. But my mind glosses over the fractures that were mended way too many times and gingerly brushes over the memories buried deep within layers and layers of ice, afraid too much hovering would melt it into streams of tears. You see, it's all too uncomfortable and my mind loves its comfort.

It'll smoothen out the wrinkles and paint it a rich shade of blue, much like everything else that's in there. I don't recall extremes because I only carry a blob of recycled memories with merely an echo of their original intensity.

My mind won't remember the tears, the screams, the clenching of teeth to keep the outburst at bay. It'll remember the smile and not how forced the action used to be; it'll remember their kindness and not my sacrifices. And isn't that too painfully convenient?