still

I miss writing. I feel so far away from it, like it was never a part of me.
I was never a part of it. (I was just apart.)


I read my words from days gone by and my own metaphors have been lost on me.
I don't remember everything when I see my scars. Memories are escaping at an alarming rate. 


It frightens me. 




It's been awhile since I've talked about the things that scare me. The past sometimes seems so far away that I feel I've outrun it, or at least outgrown it. 
I think I'm lying to myself. 
Is it even possible to change overnight like that? 


All the pain had to go somewhere. 
Sometimes I feel it start to resurface-


and I choke it back down, telling myself it'll be okay... that life is different now... that I can handle it. That I didn't ever really need to handle it like that anyway, that I'm not and never was as sad as I felt. 


I think this is how it's supposed to be, full of questions and not many answers. 
Is it because I've found happiness? Was it ever something that needed to be found? 
(It existed without me.)
Why does my past bother me so much, yet so little? 
Did I need the pain?