2025
2 0 2 5
It’s March now.
This story begins far before this month, of this year, but it’s March now.
I shouldn’t be writing this now, I should be living another life but, I could never write new chapters without writing what happened before.
Or else, it’ll keep chasing me and, I frankly don’t ever want to be in the same room as the past.. not again.
I tried pretending none of it was real, but it was. And I’ve tried talking about it but it always sounds like a complaint, like, “you’re fine now, what does it matter?”
What does it matter.. that the younger versions of me are still unsaved, they haven’t been rescued, they’re still drowning in the same events my current self feels, completely detached from. But not them, they’re still tied.
I still love them enough to walk with them through the most difficult hallways, holding the most difficult memories, carrying the wildest stories they could carry at whatever age it happened at.
And they know they’re not unique in their experience, many people suffer, especially from childhood wounds.
Somehow being one of many made them (my past selves) think their stories weren’t important enough.. and they may not be to anyone else but them, but according to them, it’s important to tell the truths of each matter, according to what was lived.
My younger selves want to know how anyone else would react.. Maybe they were young, and dumb, and weak, and helpless.
Or maybe they were strong and didn’t know it, and looked forward to being older, wiser, and perhaps fully in control.
But without any external perspective, how could they know?
It’s March now and I want my heart to stop hurting. It still hurts, is that even normal?
Maybe telling all truths will feel the same, or it might feel like an end to what was, or it might cause good or bad things to happen, who really knows.
It’s March now.
That’s for sure.
And that shit happened.
That’s for sure.
Live/Laugh/Love they say.
Well I’mma write, laugh and love this out.
It’s in the past now, who can say it wasn’t real?