All I know is what I remember.
All I have is what I remember.
I tried, for years I tried to forget.
I tried to say goodbye, but then I understood and I knew the truth buried deep within me had to be unraveled.
Nobody knows what happened in Ithaca.
Only I know. I know what I felt. I know what I experienced. I knew the moment I read the words on the page and they meant something else. They were no longer letters floating on a plane and I was no longer a student doing research. The secret was hidden in the text. The secret was hidden in the words. It took me years to finally understand myself and realize that what I was avoiding all along was the treasure that I was looking for. It took faith, and hope, and believing it was possible.
I was the person that didn’t believe in love.
I was the person that was perfectly content being on my own—I still am—but that doesn’t mean that I can’t accept love (pure and true and divine) as a truth that is inevitable in our world. After all, why are we here? We are here to love. There is no higher power than love itself.
Then why was I fighting for so long? All those years I didn’t think it was this but then it became clear to me: I was fighting something that was bound to happen by destiny. I was fighting something that is meant to be lovely and beautiful, not sinful or painful or wrong. I was fighting what I wanted the most—negating myself love and happiness in search of a truth based on reason and logic.
But here’s the thing:
It happened when I least expected it to happen.
I thought that I had won the fight.
I thought I was well on my way in my pursuit of knowledge and the life of an academic—dedicated to research and writing and ideas.
Then I had an epiphany.
The words on the page had a meaning. I understood that I had a choice. I could choose Despair (I had already chosen Despair—I had chosen it a long time ago,) or I could choose Hope.
In the end, I chose Hope.
I made a decision, and I took action.
I regret nothing.
Do I regret choosing Despair? No.
If I had not experienced Despair, I would not feel the same way about Hope.
I don’t know what happens next, but I do know what happens now:
Now I try to live each day without desperation, or anger, worry, or stress. I try to control the longing, and the desire and the ache to finally be with the Other. But I know that everything happens in its time. So I will not sulk and I will not dwell. And if I feel pain then I let myself feel pain.
The pain of memories is the inability to forget. Even after you think that you “let go,” even after you think that you have put your past behind you, even after you think you can say goodbye to everything that matters and the only thing that meant something, you will remember the most important thing there is to remember—the most important thing we must never forget—Time is in Us.
We remember because we are guided by our experiences.
We remember because we could not love without our past—without our history.
We remember because there are things we cannot forget for a reason. There are people that are meant to be in your life, and they are, and they forever will be.
The pain of memories is remembering what love felt like and believing it wasn’t real—believing it was all in my head.
The pain of memories will haunt us forever.
But this—this moment suspended in time—is what makes me so fond of the pain and of the memories—they guide me to the light—they point the way forward—the pain of memories is what keeps me going because one day I will understand that the pain was worth it. The pain is worth it. If I can rejoice in a lifetime of Unity than this pain is a memory I will relish forever.