As Winston Smith showed us all so thoroughly, the past exists only in our minds. The problem is, our minds are terribly unreliable narrators. The times we cast in a golden light of perfection were, in reality, still filled with annoyances and irritations which our memories so conveniently leave out.
I wander along the path of my memory. Laid under, green leaves shades of uncertainty. But these days I, skew things a bit to favorably. I can no longer tell.
If it was real? Or maybe in a dream? Or maybe somewhere in between? Caught up on a memory, that never was. The unreliability of my memory will be the death of my sanity.
So I look for a shred of objectivity, but still I can't seem to shake the proclivity. For pushing, out of mind the things I couldn't stand. And I know it's true..
That you were not, the way I see you now, I reminisce a romanticized ideal caught up on a dirty lie, that never was. The unreliability of my memory will be the death of my sanity.