were we always meant to remember?


Were we always meant to remember? I received a message today at 130pm and something told me that seeing that wretched woman, that wretched cause of it all, was fate.  It was meant for it to come back.  I still can’t get over that sorry excuse of a woman, that sorry excuse of a professor.  Damn it all if she’s still there.  Damn it all if she’s still teaching.  I saw her last week, smiling as if nothing happened.  I felt those familiar feelings come back to me and going into that room again, where I was questioned, I felt the hot, salty tears brimming in my eyes.  I hated it.  I hated the feeling of remembering the torture of being yelled at, of being questioned, and of being sneered at.  It’s something I will never get used to.

I saw the letter encased in the classic white envelope in the bathroom and I reread the letter.  I tried not to remember, but I did.  Sadly, I did.  Quickly, I crumpled the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope.  I stuck under two books.  As if that had helped.  I wish I could throw it away.  But damn it, it’s a freaking keepsake.  How on earth am I supposed to move on and forget about it when you’re all trying to make me remember?

I dreamt about number 2.  It was a strange dream and it seemed as though you had not known who I was, and yet you had a strange twinge in your eye.  Like we shared something.  But I asked you in that dream, and that feeling of not letting go felt so real.  I remembered you in the car on the way to school and somehow it felt impossible not to like you all over again.  But again, I remembered and sometimes memory does that to you.  It makes you remember things forgotten, even the ones you try to forget.

But I wish that for once, I could move forward instead of backward.


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