The Past is Fuckin’ Venomous

Unless cursed by photographic memory, we only have precarious, tentative evidence that we are persistent creatures and have existed for more than one day through our unreliable and rapidly deteriorating memories. Our memories are just enough to give us some loose semblance of identity.

And I am glad for that.

My past is my source root of insecurity. From where the E in Existence that stands for Embarrassment draws its sapping strength.

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Give world leaders and politicians a photographic memory pill. They need it. But for me? I wouldn’t mind sacrificing some consistency for a memory-erasing pill. I think it’d be liberating.

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