Consider this an open letter to a girl I once thought I knew. I'd like to think that when it comes to moving on from someone you truly felt you loved it'd be task you can actually finish. Now I don't think that this is the case, the memories you and whomever had will not vanish. They may fade and resurface from time to time but they are never truly gone. Every time a good memory with that person pops up in your head and you feel the same surge of positive emotions that you felt when you were actually with them. And every time a bad memory pops up you feel the same amount of rage and sorrow you felt in that moment. Can one truly say they've moved on if they still feel these things? Can you expect me to move on and forget after what you did do to me? Why don't you give me an explanation so I at least have closure? Many of us have found ourselves asking these questions, with very few ever finding answers. Even if they do find answers, they are highly unlikely to be satisfactory to the point in which you're at peace with what's just happened.
So what do we do about it? To be honest, I'm not sure. For at least the few couple of weeks she wasn't ever off of my mind. Every day I thought about her, until one day I didn't, then another, and another. I didn't forget, nor had I truly been at peace with what she did, however I learned to appreciate the beautiful memories I do have with her, and do what I can to ignore the bad. She's not a bad person, although I definitely thought so at the initial time of the incident. I'm not going to pretend she was perfect but what I can do is cherish the times we were watching The Office and smiling like goofballs, smoking a bowl on the back porch talking about life, making fun of the silly things we'd utter by mistake, and many more.
I'll end this with two quotes from two great authors.
"love is a temporary madness, it erupts like a volcano then quickly subsides" -Louis de Berniere
"'Oh, Jake," Brett said, "we could have had such a damned good time together."
Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me.
"Yes," I said. "Isn’t it pretty to think so?'" - Ernest Hemingway - The Sun Also Rises (Chapter 19 Paragraph 60)