Deleting old pictures is harder than throwing everything away. It’s like physically going into your head and purging, plucking the tender nerves and strumming them before you rip it out at the base. Liberating, in a sense but there will always be a place your fingers fit perfectly. You can restring everything and it’ll play alright, but the tune will turn on you. High and lonesome like a fiddle on a moonlit plank porch, back in the holler. Back where the loneliness was harmonized by catbirds and whippoorwills.
My mantra has become, ‘I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t myself. I need to improve myself to be happy,’ but that’s the hardest thing to do. Sometimes I wonder if I wasn’t happy because I quit medication or if the relationship altered because of that, or if I was unhappy because it wasn’t the right fit. What ifs won’t leave me. Being upset used to make me eloquent and poetic, but now I just feel unclean and like a burden. Fiery passion once defined me, now I’m just defined by a constant fiery temper.