There’s a strange comfort in remembering how I used to feel—before obligations, before self-doubt, before knowing how little control I actually have. I catch myself thinking, if only I could go back and tell her something… but I also know she wouldn’t listen. She was stubborn and reckless and beautiful in ways I’ve since forgotten how to be. 💔

And then there’s the flip side: the memories I try to erase. Tiny embarrassments, whispered regrets, moments I replay at 2 a.m. when the world is quiet. I hate them and I can’t stop returning. It’s like my brain keeps receipts I don’t want, proof that I existed in ways I sometimes regret.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe being human is keeping all these fragments, the good and the bad, and learning how to live with the noise they make. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it hums with joy. Sometimes it’s just silence. And I’m not sure which is worse.

Do we ever actually learn from memories, or do we just rearrange them to make the present feel tolerable? ❓ That’s the question I carry around like a coin I can’t spend, flipping it over and over, hoping one side will give me an answer. 🌙