It’s a bit morbid to hold on to the past. I always expect the smell of corpses and filthy clothing to waft past me when I start feeling sorry for myself, or start missing the wrong things or people. That isn’t to say that there haven’t been happy times – that’s what my giant stack of photo albums are for, diving into the happy times.
It when the sadness, guilt, unhappiness and sheer loneliness blindsides you on an otherwise perfectly normal day from a past you thought was buried that you need to start thinking about getting that shovel out and beginning an excavation.
Who knows? It might turn out to be prettier than it seems. And even if it isn’t – well, at least now I know what’s there.