Once upon a time, we were happy.
Whether I say it because I have to believe it–we all do, sometimes, whether the underlying is truth or not, and I quietly wonder whether it’s more true than false, or vice versa–is not the point. We do believe it; we were able to smile then, and we’re able to smile now, looking at pictures of smiles, remembering words from smiling faces.
We were happy, and it’s bound never to be the same.
Nothing stays the same. That’s stagnant. Anti-progress. Things have to continue on, and voices have to fade. Smiles are renewed. Is the twinkle in the eye? We change.
Just as I’ve changed now. I peruse through my iPhoto memory, letting it whisk my true memory back, and I appreciate the times for what they were then, and think of the difference between me and me. I am essentially a whole different person from who they know, and as I keep wandering back into myself and who I probably should’ve been this whole time that girl gets lost even further into the distance.
Will they ever forgive me, or is it really such a matter? After all, I’ve nothing to apologize for, since this is no intentional wrong-doing. But I do know that what will feel to me like an improved version, a beautiful regression into something more pure and essential in myself, I will disappoint them. I live life more purely now, and I sound like a stuck-up prat to even claim it, but it’s true. I smile more easily than even those smiling pictures could tell. I flit happily from friend to friend, undeniably in love with every step along the way, in love with the way life is, in love with the way I feel. I’m actually able to write again, though I have this sharp tendency to want to mirror newly beloved characters more often than I wish. (Read the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer. If you’re smart, you’ll buy all three before digging in. If you can’t find the next book soon enough–don’t blame me. I’ve officially warned you. Bookstores aren’t open at 2 am, after you’ve finally pried yourself from the closed back cover long enough to remember my brilliant advice and curse the next six hours of sleep. Likely much deserved sleep, but you won’t want to.)
Parenthesized book review aside, I’ve moved on to something new. There’s no changing back. What’s next? And how much of my past gets left on the timeline?
