People say get over it, never realizing that time is a broken, winding street, and the soul, a hemline that catches, snags and stains with every step.

Conquer it, they say as if the past is a monster, a trap, not a blanket of known thorns, an old jacket that just fits too tight in the same way a corset does.

Let it go they say, like the past is so many skeletons in the closet,Β not a framework of hard-worn bonesΒ holding you together.

And they shame you for having a past as if you arrived into life, fully realised & perfect, not consequences of what happened and realisations of what you have.

They make the past a dirty secret.

But secrets don’t make for good living companions. So I turnΒ mine into blogposts, poetry and performance into a portfolio. And thus my resume becomes life.

Google holds my history. I pimp out my secrets for survival, looking for omens in autocorrect, because all I have inside of me is whispers & echoing sounds.

And if I empty it all out, maybe some day, the silence will ring true. At the end of that broken street, torn hemlines won’t matter anymore because in the vacuum, nobody is naked.

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