What can I say of the past?
Maybe this. The past is like an itch. It surfaces in
the present without giving any reason for it's presence.
And at first, an itch is pleasant to scratch,
but scratch it too long, and you open a wound.
And what can I say of opening wounds?
Maybe this. The past is memory.
And memory is like an itch.
My fingers spring to reach it, to touch it,
to grasp it, and before I know, I'm already scratching.
And sometimes - an itch is weak.
It is fleeting and when I stroke it, it vanishes.
But sometimes, it is strong; it is persistent,
and I keep scratching at it for that feels like
the only relief.
And when I stop - it stings. I've opened a wound.
A wound that needs to heal.
And what can I say of healing?
Maybe this. The past is memory in time.
And if time has wounded you - time will heal you.
But, not in the way you think.
The one's who love me often say, "Don't scratch!
Don't scratch! It'll only hurt. You'll only make
it worse for yourself." So, I halt.
I make an effort and I distract myself.
If you ever feel an itch that surfaces in your
present without giving a reason for its presence,
and if you find yourself scratching - stop.
Stop and to leave time that has past,
borrow from time that is present.
See yourself in the present, and you will find that
slowly - the itch passes.
And what can I say of the past?
Maybe this. The past is like an itch.
And someday, we will learn not to scratch it.
Someday, we shall wait for time to heal it.