When you let someone from your past re-enter your life, it can ruin memories that you previously had with them.
The prior short-lived feelings of joy, excitement, and comfort- which you finally considered romanticized history, fond memories forgetting the pain- are pulled out of the box in the closet.
You put them in that container in the cardboard box in the extra closet of the spare bedroom for a reason. They were meant to be a memory; not the future.
Yet here you are, slicing the cardboard and unraveling the packing paper that holds your memories. They were lovingly encased in a timeless glass dome with an intricate knob, airtight sealed over a hand-carved polished oak plaque.
And you know that if you open them, then they will never be the same.
They will be tainted with the nowness and the knowingness that are currently pulsing in the nucleus of your atoms. You can’t un-know what you know. You can’t be anywhere other than right now. But the memories are whispering again. They say things like:
“The way you touch me, with our clothes on.
The way you look at me with those beautiful eyes.
It’s wild how submissive you allow yourself to be around me, because you’re an independent, strong woman.
You’re so interested to know me inside and out.
You make me so vulnerable
I hate showing weakness, but for you, it’s all you want from me. Those are the most intimate parts of me, and you want it all.”
And like the soft, stupid, pliable soul that I am, I listen. I heed. I hope for something that was never meant to be.
I pry the edge loose and peak under the glass.
And the newness and the nowness and the knowingness turns the sparkling, glittering twinkles that were my memories into a heavy cloud of gray dust that fills & coats the room and makes it hard to breath.
And so I open a window.
And wipe my face.
And grab a broom.
And start cleaning up a mess that I never should’ve created.