How does one forget everything and begin again? How
does one start seeing things through eyes that are purely her own and not
through lenses tainted with you and your palpable and undeniable being? How does one begin when you are everywhere? On
her table, in the coffee shop she frequents, on the seats by the cinema’s fire
exit? Everything is inundated with your being, and it is beautiful and sad and
overwhelming.
How does one know which parts of her self are truly hers and
not borrowed from you? Which parts must she struggle to retain and which must
she return? This journal, does this belong to her? For these memories are memories of you and not of her. And that love for Woody Allen and the movies you watch together? When she has so willingly molded her person and life according to
you and for so long, now that everything is over, will her person be hollowed?
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