I feel like what we were is morphing in memory, a shape shifter; sometimes something beautiful, sometimes something maddening. And my heart strings are woven through that object, slowly wearing down as it changes and moves and alters. Was it always this way? Maybe it was, and it was always fated to fray the strings and, eventually, inevitably disintegrate - though that part is yet to be proven. That is just my pessimistic prediction, as I emerge from the Dark, Dark Place, a little jaded.
