The terrible terrible urge to recreate perfect moments. The yearly trips to the spots where one proposed, the playing of songs that caused timeless memories, the wearing of clothes that may have been worn when something important had happened…the longing with which we try and hold on is so powerfully unique. The belief that the past was better, that the future will only be a shadow of the bygone, that we will make what’s coming so much more palatable only if kept looking back.
But there is time and then there is space. One dimension may by cyclical, but for both of them to replay finitely can only be a disaster or a miracle. Both unlikely cyclic occurrences. You may have noticed ants around a sugar crystal. Lift it up, place it some distance away. It will find its way back to the crystal, again, again and again, as if its life depended on it.
We are, at times, no more than ants. Cosmic, karmic ants. So, stop reading those letters, burn that dress, take that dry flower from the book and dispose it. Gouse those eyes from the back of the head, there is a reason why there are none there in the first place.