Sometimes I'm not so sure just who I am either.

As the old saying goes, "sometimes loving someone means letting them go.

I'm in love. And I like how that feels. And I hate how that feels. Because love is an invention of fiction writers.

Your hurt swallows ine, like space swallows time, and the two intertwine. We tangle together.

So You Want to Know All about her. Who she really is. (Was?) Why she swerved off the high road. Hard left to nowhere, recklessly indifferent to me. Hunter Seth Haskins, her firstborn son. I've been chocking that down for nineteen years. Why did she go on her mindless way, leaving me spinning in a whirlwind of her dust?

My happiest memories have no place in the past; they are those I have yet to create.

Memory is a tenuous thing, like a rainbow's end or a camera with a failing lens.