he said, "tell me about your history" because he knew i loved history and how the chronological events turned into a collection of memories. what i wish i was told was that some parts of history was blacked out; redacted; forgotten; thrown aside; history doesn't always tell you the truth, so who are we to believe in false prophets?
when i told him about my history, he believed i would succumb to the past just like everyone before him.
the past is not the present the present is not the past i tried to make him remember but i forgot my past trying to make him recall the present and that's the thing about history.
you can't undo history, which could be the beauty and curse of living. history is the ghost of my past, visiting me before sleep, showing me how much more beautiful the world would be if i joined the nonexistant entity.
i believe in the propaganda of the ghosts telling me i'm better off becoming a part of history.