Unless.
I cannot come up with something to hold back my love of these memories. But I have to figure out a way to hold them off, for just a moment, just long enough to get my bearings.
And I’m not very good-looking, inside or out. I have bald spots. My face is disproportional and I notice this works with some people–a lot of people, or movie stars.
So what does this have to do with memories killing me? I think I used to see myself as beautiful long ago. As a kid. But I wouldn’t have called myself that exactly. I would have called myself amazing or superhero-ish. I was a bad-ass.
And beautiful. Instead, as a kid, or as I was purported to be one, I felt like I could accept every nook and cranny of existence. There were no dark corners. I didn’t have to look in a mirror for any validation.
Where do you look now, when you pass a mirror, and need to floss, or wash your face? I never remember washing my face as a kid. That’s where the memories lurk, in that fucking mirror.