Letting Go

If you are a human above a certain age, I guess it’s inevitable that you travel with baggage. That name that once made your heart swoon, that smile that churned your insides and then un-churned it, that song that always got you through, how do you travel without these?

In some cases they just remain carry bags, but in some, like mine, they become something that latches onto my skin, baring its way into my very insides, and resting there for what seems like all of eternity to me right now.

How do we let go?

How do we let go of all the little things and all the big things that make us feel twelve years old again? The heartbeat that still gnaws at you for no reason when you see the kid next to you smile just like an old boyfriend? How do you snap out of not letting anyone say a famous musicians name because it is yet another old  lover’s name? How do you learn to let go of the stream of nostalgia that wails for some gluttony when you’re at a place or hearing a song where the roots of your friendship were imbibed with once best friends who are no longer your friends?

It doesn’t matter if these decisions were your choice or not, they still are memories that reek of good times and break your soul because they no longer are. It isn’t just a bittersweet old fragment that zipped past your present. It is called not letting go.

I’m a hoarder. So guilty of being one. What do I do? With a memory like mine (ANNOYINGLY EXCELLENT) nothing fades away. Not the doctor who removed my tonsils when I was eight, or the very special birthday I had that year, and not my once best friend or an old boyfriend.

The pleasure may be for an instant, but the pain remains for the rest of the day and I can no longer bare it. How does one really let go? Does it take forgetting? Because I can’t. The only answer I came upon is to have the void filled, not with other things, but with people who take on their roles. And for that, I patiently decide to await.

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