Tuesday, February 21, 2012

I'm such a fucking cynic.
The stories we romanticize as children, the bigger than life, happier-than-they-really-were memories that we have, I look back on with a sense of realism that almost ruins it. Because I have my own, that even I am unable to break down into anything other than blissful moments.

But when I hear those of others, the unimaginative me comes out, judging and ridiculing in my brain until the wine hits it enough to let me speak those unmentionable thoughts outloud, and I wish I fucking wouldn't! Why can't I let him have his moments of bliss, his untouched memories crafted by a child who doesn't know any better. I have to taint it with nasty realism. Rational thought. Why do we adults let this permeate our brains?

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