It is such a sadness to me to slowly realize that I have believed the myths of my life, and that I somehow poisoned the well of my own memories through years of secret daydreaming. Maybe this is difficult to explain. But with horror I have come to understand that I have greatly romanticized eras of my life, have made them huge when in reality they only existed for a little while, and if viewed coldly and objectively, these places in time that I seem to recall so vividly are not ones I would return to if given the opportunity. I have been dishonest with myself out of self-preservation. I’m always dreaming, and so I have made my past into a dream so that I have someplace to go. It felt harmless at first, but it is true that I have grown increasingly disoriented by what I guess you might call dueling realities. It’s just that the alternative feels to me like such a grim place to be.
All those places I used to know are now just dark streets in Oakland, and all those people I used to know are phantoms. Stripped of meaning, and cursed with remembering, I am laden with this heaviness that I can’t seem to get out from under.
lol ok bye