"The ashes, given body by the wind, floated away from me down the river."
-From The Boat by Nam Le
I often feel this way about my memories. They are like ashes in an unexpected wind in that they are impossible to hold on to, but taunting and visible. I set my memories aflame with undeserved longing. My propensity is to mourn loves and lives which were never really mine to experience and lose. Unfortunately, for some of us there is only the deep-seated comfort of illusion. Because I have never truly luxuriated in the pure poetry of unconditional love or unwavering friendship, I maintain a selfish devotion to my self-loathing. I have learned to kill my aspiration, and resign myself to a life draped thick with failure, as it seems to be all I will ever know in this life. And my memories? They are like a cactus shoved through my flesh to pierce the withering thing which passes for my heart. They are a blanket of blades I cover myself with, a blanket which never allows me to forget who I can never become, and how I can never love, or be loved.