I had heard no more, and had buried any further thoughts in a place I had forgotten before I even remembered. It’s strange, how our memory works. It decides for us, holds tight what we felt was slipping away, and loosens its grip on what we desperately hold on to. What else can we do but to surrender to the whims of our own randomness. It’s a sick kind of revenge, and it feels uncomfortable to be betrayed by our own reason, but life is an architect who draws different sketches on his table than what we asked for.
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