eternal sunshine of the spotless mind

The past has become poison. I do not want to hear it's songs or remember it's photos, or peruse it's meaning.
Since I alone am the holder of it's entirety, if I banish it, no one will be aware of my omission but my own self.
It is as though a thing which was once a colorful garden and rolling hills and healthy forests, now through new vision seems like old landfill and toxic spillage and dead rotting stinking creatures.
And who can say what is the truth?
I can say I prefer to not have new vision, if that's the view it affords me.
You who are all bitter and practical and wounded, I never wished to know your side of the story.

As I feel the wave of bitterness wash up on my shore, I wish it to cover the whole universe.
But I wait, trying out a new patience, and find that hope has not left me still.

It perches. It sings. It seems to be immune to drowning and burning. It imagines the tide will recede and that I will be washed and new. It does not really believe the new vision.

And yet, I despise the thing. I wish it would drown, or burn and urge me not to look forward or back.
I have been raw for so long, I am surprised to remember when I was not.

I find my memory coming to rest on a Christmas in 2007 when I opened a wrapped lampshade, or August 12 2006. Brief respite from the surreal present moment.
I stay there for a moment, to again feel the earth beneath me.

But I must return to now, to floating, to the wail of kidneys processing bitter blood.

Patience. Not to judge it, just to acknowledge and wait for the passing.