Like perfectly imperfect polaroids, I lay flicking through my memories. The bad, the good and everything in between, I longingly ruminate on them all in a desperate attempt to escape the now. I lovingly look upon toxic relationships as romantic affections, envy my depressed self of eighteen and miss friends I know I have outgrown. I am addicted to the past, or rather I’m addicted to remembering, the bad is good and the now is forgotten. I live in memories when I need to sleep, and sleep away the tomorrow. Brick up the future and run back down the escalator, who’s forward motion is too strong for me to beat. I am tired of the fight and it shows, on a face with blood shot eyes like vains of lava and skin dry and cracked like old wallpaper on a crumpling house. I feel weak in my inability to stop my escape, like a prisoner I am trapped in a body unwilling to outgrow the past and desperate to find purpose in replaying the vhs tapes of nostalgia. But this movie hasn’t changed. It’s as flawed as before and I am only more flawed with every rerun. I wish I could burn these old Polaroid’s, but I am in an ocean, the last thing I have is fire.