Revisiting The Past, v.infinity

[I have not forgotten about the math meet, not yet. The post for that is sitting in my drafts right now, and I am thinking about writing that as soon as possible, which, knowing me, may take a very, very long time. But now I know how to solve this backlogging!]

If I were honest with myself, I would realize immediately that the reason I keep going to the past is because I want something from it. I am the first to claim that I do not like my past (it is not a subject I would freely talk about in front of other people, anyway), but I also admit I write about it a lot. Something about it is comforting, and it holds something I am seeking, so I keep coming back to it.

Likewise, I keep on holding on to people who I should have let go a long time ago. I think I have forgotten them, but some way or the other I see them again, and I can't help but dredge up the old ties. This is still novel to me. The idea that people can "go way back." So I am still fascinated by it, ridiculous as it is.

And here I am again. Sifting through old emails, and I can't help but search up his name.

How many times have I berated myself for doing this? Why can't I let go? I do not love him anymore, that much I know. Gone are the gut-wrenching days. I would like to say that this is merely curiosity, or habit, a habit reinforced no less than a thousand times.

The thing is, all of this was so, so ridiculous. I was a naive, misguided idiot back then. I had an excuse (no matter how poor). Do I still have that excuse now?

So much can change in three years.

Yet so much can stay the same. My love (and often hate, too) for clichés stayed. As did that illogical avoidance of sunlight and blue skies. This talking about the past, I think that stayed too.

November makes me remember, though. It could be the dreary cold (I have been in more colder places but they received a brighter dose of afternoon sunlight even in the winters). It could be the past coincidences, but that would be too simple, wouldn't it? Something as simple as that could not possibly be causing me so much grief. Or sorrow. Or just quiet reflection, because the color has already seeped out of what I used to feel, and now there is just a faded resemblance of the past.

But it is December now.

A good month. Filled with festive cheer, and a sprinkling of hope. Glittering ice and fluffy snow. The promise of something magnificent transformed within a night. I am entranced by December's charm, the way it takes away the oppressive but clearly resonating autumn with a wave of its hand.

Too surreal. Much too surreal, and that is why I love it so much. Not—oh, how could it?—because it reminds me of the past as well.

There is a part of me that knows I can never truly walk away. That I am still hanging on to the mementos, subconsciously. My means of daily conversation is proof of that. The way I get home. My double-take on first impressions.

It is all there, however vague it needs to be.

. . .

I am working on my LitEx paper, somewhat, although I do not know at all where I want to go with it. I will have to think of something, and soon, because the outline is due Monday morning.

What do I want to write?

Do I even have a thesis?

I said I would talk about the subconsciousness. I think I want to talk about how the subconscious, complete with its host of prejudices and preconceptions and silly past grudges, is more in control of our decisions than our conscious, logical mind. That is arguable, right?

Although you could rarely persuade me otherwise. Because my past is more in control of me than my rationality is. And in truth this is just an expansion of what I believe, except corroborating it with evidence from texts.

Now I need specific evidence, and nonfiction ones at that.