The Past is Just a Story We Tell Ourselves At Night
You are asleep. I am in my night-bound day dream. I wander from empty space to empty space. There I collect strewn, abandoned memories like constellations, joining sparks of moments passed beneath my eyelids. In the curling corners of the universe in my mind, I keep them, in dark corners swept under exuberant galaxies of my happiest thoughts. There they stay: hot spheres of grief and passion, tangled in endless webs of pinprick lights and buried in the depths of gloomy, fading nebulae. Smeared in the dust of dead stars. The most painful ones trickle from my eyes in pearly streaks onto the pillow, salty and warm. Some are lodged - like comets, fallen - in the bottom of my chest, and I feel them against scrape my ribcage when I inhale.
When you wake, you run your tongue along the bite marks in my bottom lip and you come away with the taste of celestial splinters, like ashes of broken hearts. The past doesn’t mean anything, you whisper, and my suddenly meagre world collapses on itself in slow, surreal explosions. The memories I am so tangled in, the lattice of starlit stories, begins to tumble from between my decaying lips in a sigh of defeat - unravelling, lost forever in daylight’s logical stare. Trembling, I watch as the sun burns through my beloved memories and turns them to meaningless stories. But I retell them to myself - in new constellations - when the night arrives again (because constellations, and memories, and the past, are just stories).