I’d be hurt but I’m not, so you’re lucky and so am I.

I am opposite. I do not burn old photos in a rite of rebirth, I do not squirrel away my most shamefulls in the root system of an old oak. For some reason I romanticize all goings on back there, be they mine or others. I dream of nice clothes and well written letters, of horses in the streets and good ol' fashion duels. I'd see that burning visage of a past love and know that the acrid smell of sulfur and burning photostock would not absolve me of anything. My fondest and not so fond memories intermingle in warm pool of something in my mind highdiving and cannonballing, drowning and peeing. Even the villains of my life are there like a funny rogue's gallery (they are usually peeing) and are harmless enough. I like not understanding why. I like having all those old letters and knick knacks cluttering my shelves, each one a touchstone of some instance or occasion begging me remember. I do remember and cherish.
But I fear the future.