Origin Story
They say the past is everlasting, but mine ain’t what it used to be. The shapes don’t change — just rearrange, refract, react to how I see. I find, of late, as I reintegrate each slice of time, the constants shift; derivatives of pasts I’ve lived, of memories I’ve learned to sift, to scrutinize, turn sharper eyes upon, to find the buried parts and careful lies, that I’ve realized carved callouses onto my heart. How to reconcile the now-disjoint tiles, those mosaic-shards I once carefully placed, now that I’ve seen that, for as neat and as clean as they seemed, their image is not my true face? All that I’m left with is strange disconnection: for all my powers of recollection, the facts of my past remain unchanged; but my story then and my story now have grown apart, and become estranged.