Much of my years are blurred out, pixelated, and drowned by static noises in my head. My brain has a knack for blocing out the bad parts. The way it would dutifully scratch out memories I refuse to recal can be attributed to me and me alone— I choose not remember.
My brain back then wasn’t the antagonistic meanie that adulthood has turned it into. It obeyed me. If I commanded it to forget, it would. Effectively so that when I try to recall the years I’ve went through, my mind comes out blank. There’s a chunk of my life that is faded enough to have me questioning if I had friends and if I ever hung out with them.
“How did we meet?” was a question I could never answer.
It’s getting difficult to try to form a sense of self when you can barely make out the memories of your formative years. At which point was I corrupted by life?
I guess I have to make do with what (or who) I am now.
Cope and Wander 