Sometimes I replay old conversations, gestures, glances in my head. Not because I want to go back. I just want to understand—at what point did it all go wrong? Did that moment even exist, or did everything gradually crumble, with me simply closing my eyes?

Perhaps we return to the past not out of love, but out of fear.
Fear that there will never again be anything so powerful, so real.
Some feeling—it was the pinnacle, and beyond that, there's only the plain. 💭

But the past is tricky. It always looks more beautiful than it was. Memory edits, like a filter in a photo: it removes dirt, adds light. We remember not the person, but the emotion they evoked. And we chase not them, but how we felt then.

Is it even worth going back there? Or should the past remain there, so as not to interfere with the future's breathing? 🌫️

I don't know. But sometimes, when I play an old song at night, I feel like I'm that same me again for a few minutes. And maybe that's why we keep all these ghosts. 👻