I don’t believe in them. I don’t think you can recreate anything. I don’t believe you can mend emotions. Once in love with the past, now I loathe it. A fresh start insinuates a simulation of something that has been, in the hopes of a reincarnation. Nothing can rise from the dead. You may give birth to a billion new things, but the past cannot be resuscitated, regardless of your desperation, in spite of your prayers, despite your longing.
It has become an oxymoron for me. You must first destroy, and then create; incinerate, and then throw away the ashes so they don’t smear what you wish to bring into a clean existence. You should not forget, but you must not recall. Memories have senses too. They will mislead you, though, trick you into rebooting what you think is ideal. It might have been; it is no longer. All moments are ascribed their own time. They belong there; so, please, let them be.
A start can only be fresh if it has just been produced, not reheated. The question now remains, can you reheat people? Warm them up so they reach the temperature of your own skin? And if you do succeed, how long do you think this fabricated warmth will last? Enough to kiss you? Tell you what you’ve been longing to hear again? Enough to care? You will soon feel the temperature drop again, and cold fingers is all you will remember.
Will you recover? Which memory is worse? The good that will never come again or the one you machinated and then watched fall short? Everything has been falling short lately. What have I done? I live in certain machinations. I breathe contrivances. I am empty, selfish, ignorant, and full of fresh starts that fail me one by one.
I am stale.