The past is an enormous place, with all sorts of things inside. Not so with the present. The present is merely a narrow opening, with room for only one pair of eyes. Mine.
All the things that I’d done. Memories, they never hurt me. The past is more than memories. It’s the devil you sold your soul to.
We all know people who live too much in the past. Too much history, too much remembering, can ultimately destroy the present and the future.
They say the past is etched in stone, but it isn’t. It’s smoke trapped in a closed room, swirling… changing. Buffeted by the passing of years and wishful thinking. But even though our perception of it changes, one thing remains constant. The past can never be completely erased. It lingers. Like the scent of burning wood.