From journals

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This is from my journal. Date: sometime last year.

Some things have ended and will never be the same again. I suppose this is just a fact of life, something that cannot be changed, no matter how hard it is analyzed and worked over. We are both liars; I have accepted that now. Realizing the error of my ways, I moved on, looking down the road again, seeing nothing but a horizon line. It doesn’t bother me that things will never be the same again; my memory has glamorized the way that things were, so how could they ever be the same? “The same” is an unattainable goal. I replay the things I said and the things she said until they become like lines from a movie. Isn’t that all memories are, anyways? Home movies that age and distort, emotional and personal images of objective events strung together to form motion pictures? My memory is easily swayed. I can quickly recall the good and quickly forget the bad. I guess I’m lucky that, for me, it isn’t the other way around.

Some things are beginning and have no end in sight, no path down which to travel. For some, this is exciting. For others, those of the persuasion of “rigidity” and “order”, this is the most frightening place to be. I place myself happily and comfortable in the middle.

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