Not Me
My memories of Before sit in the back of my mind, perfectly categorized, in perfect condition, filed and waiting for me to draw on them.
I do, but I do it as if I am looking up the answer in a computer, because these memories don't make sense.
I know that, logically, they must be true, as much as anyone's memories are true…
And yet, I cannot bring myself to believe it. Did I really do such things?
Lying and smiling and fighting, practicing deception, feeling.
It does not make sense. It is as if I have someone else's memories sitting in the back of my head.
It is strange, disconcerting. So I ignore them.
Surely I can make my way without these remnants of who I once might-have-been.
.
.
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