There’s irony in writing a poem about rifling through old feelings as I’m sitting here trying to work my way through past, repressed, feelings. I hang onto the idea that there’s a difference between finally feeling what you’ve never actually felt and indulging in memories to escape from the present.
Old Self
I thought I was the only one that would find myself surfing through four-year-old emails, trying to stir up a bit of emotion, a bit of familiarity, something to kill the longing.
When you find the words you were looking for, even the words you didn’t know you were looking for, longing doesn’t subside but takes over tenfold.
I haven’t dug into the past, searching, in what feels like forever but that doesn’t stop it from periodically, way too often, dropping from the sky and blocking my path.
I imagine how hard you had to come crashing through to break the wall I built to keep you out.
What has you so afraid that you’re able to run backward, in my direction, with that much force?
I’ve drowned myself in the past so many times that I believe every story of people drowning, having near-death experiences, being brought back to life for a chance to do things with a new perspective.
I would be a hypocrite to still doubt them.
The thing about digging up four-year-old emails, though, is I’ve never had the courage to send them, to put on a show.
I always had a feeling the other person might see the gap in perspective, a shift in roles.
Any good person grows as the go and four years is a lot of versions to let show.
I always had a feeling, and you proved me right.
There’s no use digging through old feelings, searching through the past, trying to hang onto something that you told yourself would last.
No matter what you find, it’s like walking through the graves.
Those people don’t exist anymore, they’ll never be the same.
Much love, until next time.
Madeline May I... 