How does one move on? How does one safeguard their sanity amidst the relentless onslaught of memories and emotions? It feels as though with every significant step forward, a part of oneself is left behind, whether it be remnants of joy or scars of pain. The journey of moving on feels like a constant act of shedding skin. Each significant turn, every emotional milestone, leaves behind a husk of who we once were. Gradually, it seems, one loses fragments of their identity until they're left as a mere semblance of who they once were—a hollow shell haunted by the echoes of their past, eyes vacant and soul weary. A zombified existence.
Sanity, in the face of such a relentless dismantling, feels like a luxury we can't afford. How can we navigate the mundane, the daily grind, while pretending everything is okay? This constant masquerade, this pressure to conform to some fabricated normalcy, feels suffocating. The worst part? This zombified version of ourselves remains tethered to the past, a past we desperately wish were our present, frozen in time.
Let me paint a more vivid picture of this torment. Imagine existing in a perpetual inferno, forever aware that what ignited the flames, the person we were when the fire first sparked, is extinguished forever. The agony is compounded by the knowledge that even if fate, in a cruel twist, offered a chance to recapture that past, it would be a hollow victory. Neither the object of our desire nor ourselves are those same people anymore. Even if, by some magical hand of fate, are brought together, both of us will be searching in the eyes of the other; an existence that is frozen in our minds, yet failing to find it.
We are condemned to this purgatory, this agonizing existence, for an undefined stretch of time. We surrender to the memories, a ghost of our former selves dragged mercilessly along by the relentless current of time. One can only hope that this zombified existence reaches its end, somehow, somewhere, soon.
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