I don’t indulge much in reminiscing about the old times these past few months, but this still holds true. Sometimes it feels like my memory space is too small to catalog everything we say or do to other people or what they say to us, so I end up silently murdering all the other glorious memories of others in haste to provide space for the memories of present, however fleeting it may be.
When everything else failed, all I had become was a product of survival. I wrote this as a excerpt to somebody who needed a push or was that a pull from the edge of darkness that people experience occasionally. The strength we draw from our own self is infinite, sadly it is easy to forget it too. May all of us survive another year with all its endless highs and lows.
This is a part of confession series, written in old sketch books revived and bought to life here.