I was there too, I thought as I scrolled through Instagram, eyes landing on an image I remember seeing when there was life and laughter, breath and blood involved.
Before it was still. Before it was a moment, frozen. Before I was cut out and the frame was narrowed.
And I find it curious that we, as humans, are so torn between wanting to remember and wanting to forget. Remember the moments that felt good — the drunk on joy and raucous laughter, the nighttime adventures and intimate coffee dates.
But forget the mascara-streaked cheeks and fury in your heart, the snide words whispered behind backs; no, don’t forget that, but forget the person who caused it. Cut them out, snub them, pretend everything is cotton-candy and sunshine.
Because this is who we are now: Revisionists. Pretenders. We wear false fronts, facades, every moment that we filter out what we want to forget from what we remember, like it’s as easy to delete the places two people’s paths crossed as it is to delete the Instagram photos.