All we really are: containers for memories.
Some change and some bend into others; others haunt us with the sharpest clarity; others pretend to last. The human mind is a fickle
fuck–he eats what he wants, and shits out what he hates; he reminds us of what we want to forget, while we forget what we often need in desperation. When we look back on moments that constitute our multifarious identities, or ones that we choose to rather, we tease ourselves into believing that they still have meaning today.Perhaps our recollection isn’t as reliable as we boast it to be, even with repetition and training. Memory is led by the heart, not forced by it.
Its only truth lies in the fact that the images of the past choose their presence in us when triggered by a counterpart component we notice in the present; the rest of…
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the / teeth / beneath 