Pain has an element of blank, Emily Dickinson said.
I wonder sometimes if I’ve had a single incarnation in which I was emotionally strong from the beginning, or if it’s always something I have to fight for until my metaphorical hands are bloody.
You could have drawn a line dividing up my childhood at around my eleventh year.
There is a story I once learned, one that I told myself again and again, but with so many tales filling the world, it got pushed out of my head.
I like to think some part of me, the immortal part of me that feels and remembers beyond what the flesh is capable of, sees to the end of all things.
Cut from The Happiness to Sleep for length purposes.
I remember often the golden childhoods of this life and the last. Continue reading “Souvent Me Souviens”