I could, but I don’t want to write about the past anymore because it is like cancer.
Each time I consider it, a malignant tumour grows more deadly and grotesque.
It’s a sickness of the heart and mind that could manifest physical ills if I were to allow it. So, I’m pausing a while to reset my world. It’s long overdue. The past is in the past, and I’d like to leave it there.
Sometimes, poetry is excellent for venting frustrations and objectively setting aside emotions; it can be good for acknowledging situations. That is, however, where the positivity ends.
This is because the output can come across as cruel, hurtful, and accusatory since we’re dealing with how we have been hurt, endured cruelty, or suffered accusations. Giving back what we’ve received does not amount to solving the problem. If anything, it magnifies the problem and causes much more animosity than is necessary and, of course, more personal grief. A waste of energy, time and breath when I consider how well it actually serves me to continually look back with a sense of hate or disgust.
So, it isn’t healthy to read or write that stuff, as the process creates negative tension inside where I would prefer to release, detach, move forward, and focus anew with a more positive outlook.
Sure, I could write poison until the cows come home, I have ammunition, but I’m locking up the gun. I don’t wish to waste more energy or bullets on old wounds.
I liken the past to a terminally sick patient whose last request is dignity, the right to euthanasia. I want to end the suffering for my sanity as much as anyone else. It’s the same reason I cut ties with old friends and acquaintances that served only to feed this negative energy. It’s better for us all that way.
The past has its place in history, but history is in the past. This cancer of negativity is not worth reviving. It will only deepen the wounds and spread the disease, ultimately not serving anyone positively.