No amount of magical mushroom-stew was going to make me forget. Nothing would. I had kept chasing this idea that if I put enough lifetimes under my belt, somehow, someday, I'd look differently on things. That maybe if I put myself through enough mundane everyday shit from a 100 lifetimes, eventually I'd run out of space and have to leave some memories behind. And in a way, I did. I don't remember the name of the street I lived on as a kid, or the name of my first teacher in elementary school, I can't even picture the face of my first mom, but I still remember how you smoked your cigarettes like joints, how bad your jokes got when you became comfortable with someone, that one tuft of hair on the back of your head that you never managed to tame, and how you always looked at me like you wanted me there with you.
I also remember the lights flickering on our street, the song playing at the party next door, the smell of the kitchen, the bags under your eyes from all the crying and the makeshift-tourniquet you tried to use when you got cold feet.
I regret everyday that I wasn't able to make you see yourself how I saw you. For not being able to show you that it wasn't your fault, that no child can be held responsible for the dysfunctionality of their parents. Broken words from broken people gradually broke you, and you carried it with you until the day you finally left. I'm sorry I couldn't be more.
I think I'll live another couple of lifetimes, trudging along, doing nothing, passing from family to family. There is no rest until I let you go anyway.
goofygobaahh t1_j6krr11 wrote
Reply to [WP] A soul can reincarnate after they drink a bowl of magical soup to forget their past life. You've drank hundreds of bowls, but the memory is still as clear as day in your head. by Penna_23
No amount of magical mushroom-stew was going to make me forget. Nothing would. I had kept chasing this idea that if I put enough lifetimes under my belt, somehow, someday, I'd look differently on things. That maybe if I put myself through enough mundane everyday shit from a 100 lifetimes, eventually I'd run out of space and have to leave some memories behind. And in a way, I did. I don't remember the name of the street I lived on as a kid, or the name of my first teacher in elementary school, I can't even picture the face of my first mom, but I still remember how you smoked your cigarettes like joints, how bad your jokes got when you became comfortable with someone, that one tuft of hair on the back of your head that you never managed to tame, and how you always looked at me like you wanted me there with you.
I also remember the lights flickering on our street, the song playing at the party next door, the smell of the kitchen, the bags under your eyes from all the crying and the makeshift-tourniquet you tried to use when you got cold feet.
I regret everyday that I wasn't able to make you see yourself how I saw you. For not being able to show you that it wasn't your fault, that no child can be held responsible for the dysfunctionality of their parents. Broken words from broken people gradually broke you, and you carried it with you until the day you finally left. I'm sorry I couldn't be more.
I think I'll live another couple of lifetimes, trudging along, doing nothing, passing from family to family. There is no rest until I let you go anyway.