they say we all have just one; another soul that sits sticky with our own. time, pain, circumstance all forces too weak to dislodge the two. goosebumps at a smell. a panic at the presence. a truth that sits guttural, as if something grander can be the only possible answer. something else’s plan.
the idea of it sits in opposition to our preferred way of doing things; having always been able to easily shake the past off our shoulders, brushing the crumbs of days gone by. two or three of time’s arbitrary rotations all we need to simply no longer remember what any of it felt like. proud of our inherent antidote past’s often poisonous reaches.
but what about a past without a past tense? masked insistence to the world, to the mirror proven wrong by thick knowing. not an end to the story, just a twist. a character arc.
our yesterdays are there as stepping stones in evolution; the past not something bras and ranties is defined by but shaped, pressing against our back as it nudges us forward. but when it settles into the curves just perfectly – when it holds a person safe and at home – it very well may deserve to be part of your present. time will tell.