Nothing like dreaming about her
all night to make me remember how much i miss her. I had already forgotten, already started to forget. (Or at least, had gotten very good at ignoring it, which is about the same thing.)
C’mon. You know that’s not her. It’s just an amalgamate of memories and imaginings, of memories and wistful thinking. That’s not her. It’s not her you miss.
Keep feeding yourself a lie, and eventually you’ll start to believe it too.
C’mon! Which is the lie here? When your reality tears and what you thought was truth turns out not to be truth, what you reconstruct over that torn reality… the new painting you paint over it to make sense of the mess it has become… that’s not the lie.
How do you know? Lies and truth depend on context. Truth is relative.