If only she could forget

(Where did I start? Where do I end? I ponder not only what it is that makes the world go 'round, but what makes the ride worthwhile)

When people remember something, they change it, which is the nature of memory. Like every room in someones home, every time they enter they change it just a little bit. A person will track in mud, move a piece of furniture, make a little mess... To remember is to rewrite. The only reliable memories are those that are forgotten, they are the dark rooms of the mind. Unopened, untouched, and uncorrupted.

If only I was so lucky. I once read that happiness was a bad memory, and I can't help but agree. I wish I could have a pair of those rose-tinted glasses, instead my memory is like a crazy person who hoards brightly colored rags, but throws away food.

People may often mistake imagination for memory, but I remember it all, and I can't even change it. Then again, I have heard that it is always the bad memories that stay the longest. Could it be, that maybe I have no good memories at all? Surely there was something good there, but even the seemingly happy memories lead into bad ones.

Arthur was never like the others. He spoke to me as if I was real... I am real, I am. I just forgot for a while. He was gentle, soft, Insightful, and -tzzt- nice. He owned an antique shop, and I was an antique. He told me I would never be for sale, that I had grown on him.

He would regularly check her body. He was no mechanic, but he fixed antiques all the time, so he was able to perform minor maintenance. I had never had maintenance before, and it felt strange to actually be touched.

I liked it when he touched me, his hands were soft. I liked his smile.

I liked...

I wish I could delete memories.