Bump on the noggin’

ImageSometimes I wish I could loose my memory like Harry Osbourne did in Spiderman 3. Just a bump on my head to make me forget who I have become. I think that would be awesome. A fresh start. Take me back to a simpler time when my love was pure and true. Remember when you bought that new CD from Sam Goody, and your favorite song was number 7. You’d put your CD player on repeat until your batteries went dead. My mind keeps the bad times on repeat, and everytime the chorus comes along I sing it louder and louder. Trials and tribulations have become my favorite tune and my batteries are running low. I just need to forget. Why is that so hard when it’s intentional? Maybe that’s why its often accompanied by the word forgive. With me it always boils down to choices. Will I fight, or will I fold? Will I forget it, or relive it? There tons of question marks in my life keeping me from moving forward. There’s a story about this frog being in a pot, while the chef turn up the heat slowly. By the time the frog realizes it’s hot he’s already on a plate coming out of the kitchen. Personally I never thought that a frog was that dumb. Possibly a salamander or a newt, but frogs always struck me as inclined amphibians. I think the frog knew the water was getting hotter, but he liked it. Even though it was not what he was built for, even though he was by himself in a dark place, it felt right. Maybe Ned (by the way I named the frog Ned) hopped in that pot to get away from his wife, or his job, or the circumstances surrounding his life. Ned found himself a spot where nobody could bother him. Where he could reason and rationalize amongst himself without any unwarrented opinions. There in that little spot was just Ned and his thoughts, and his justifications. The longer he thought about those things that upset him, the hotter that water got. He didn’t even stop to think about how isolated he was. He had become a frog driven by his emotions. Emotions and an unwillingness to forget what made him so mad, and forgive the perpetrators. Poor Ned. Put himself in that pot, and wouldn’t pull himself out. Ned and I have so much in common. I don’t know what comes next. A lot of writers I admire always end their writings with some sense of resolve, but I can’t. I can’t pretend at all that I’ve come to a conclusion or some sort of understanding, because I haven’t. I’m writing from the middle. I know I can’t go backwards, don’t know if I can move forward. I’m just here in the middle. In the pot and the waters warm #gulp…

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