I can totally relate: “What came before is the story of someone else. I don’t dislike this person, but she isn’t me anymore. I have tasted the bitter knowledge that all my dreams won’t come true, can never come true. I am not mesmerized by a past which is no more, and I refuse to be transfixed by whispered promises that lie beyond the horizon. I hold my memories loosely, so as to not get too attached to things which are no more. I am released from the bounds of optimism. I no longer subscribe to the blind faith that things will get better.”
I sort through the vestiges of a past life. A fifth grade report card. Figure skating trophies. A yellowed love letter. Photographs.
I have literally carried this box of memories with me for miles. I have moved at least 15 times since graduating from high school. How many creaky steps have a I slugged up with these relics in my arms? How many shelves have they sat on, gathering dust?
Some things I’m keeping, some things I’m throwing. But even what I keep doesn’t hold me anymore. These artifacts tell a story that today seems of little consequence, the story of a young person who no longer exists. My mother’s death is the red smudge on my timeline. It it is the plot twist, it is the sentinel event. What came before is the story of someone else. I don’t dislike this person, but she isn’t me anymore.
Terry Tempest Williams…
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