Sometimes I feel as if my life is composed of two pastimes, separate but born of similar thoughts.  One half is spent in agony, painfully forcing myself to ignore half the memories before they drive me through insanity.  The other half I spend deliciously craving, feeding off the wonderful thoughts until they drop into the background of oblivion.  They carry me until they are no longer real sensations, but only vague images which leave holes--questions, and most of all, doubts.

The past is my consciousness as a cardboard box of nostalgia.  I do not live now, but only in a world that reaches for my memories with bony fingers, grasping at the smiles and laughter from their large, dark abyss of desperation.  The skeletons live facing backwards, viewing what happened weeks, months, years ago until they pull their hair to stringiness and give up in a puddle of lamentation.

The lamentation grows, expounds upon itself in a swirling tunnel of self-pity and estrangement until I am forced to focus bleary vision and beam to au courant memories.