Who We Were Is The Maker of Who We Are

It’s that time
To sink or swim I try
To be stronger inside
And rise above myself
~Gavin Mikhail~

Seeing someone rise from the ashes of your past, you’re reminded of that person you once were, that version of yourself whom you rightfully walked away from.

The scars resurrect from the graves of where we buried them alive – the memories of each cut, each stab, follow us like a lingering shadow trying to find its home again.

Then you notice the small smile creeping across the edges, enveloping every deflection you once used to justify walking away. That little curve and ever so tiny spark in the eye relights a fire that makes you wonder if it was ever out.

That reminder of who you used to be – the you that you bid farewell – you now stare at from the other side and miss that inexperience that past-you had. You miss that ignorance, that innocence; but experience weighs you down.

And you want to walk away again, from the reminders of your past – the good and the bad.

For the good is as enticing and catastrophically hypnotic, because we know that there was a point in life where that version of us was all we could be; that version of us satisfied us.

That version made us happy, however temporary.

Yet the bad evokes the pain we now learnt to suppress, the anguish we now learn to oversee; the agony we now deem trivial; the scars we now curtain.

And yet goodbyes are never forever – because who we were is the maker of who we are; and who we are is the murderer of who we were.

There is no perfect crime – traces of our past closeted in every corner, becoming a Monster of Dust building its power: the longer we leave it unattended, the stronger it gets.

The older our history, the greater the impact. If our lives were a catapult, the longer we trace back the harder the hit into the present. But without going back, there is no way forward…

If I ever had a real chance to travel in a time machine
Where would I go?
Probably wouldn’t wanna see the past
Cuz all the memories are enough.

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