stories

it's funny how ... the stories that you tell are the ones from ages ago. the ones i tell are, anyway. not sure if things seem better through the handy rose the-past lens. or if there's nothing i've done in the last few years that seems interesting. or that i'm proud of. or that i want to admit into the... um, life canon of me. the dinner-party-story version you tell to other people.
if i had to tell the stories of the last 12 months, what would they be? what would i admit to? what would i be proud of? would there be anything?
maybe things need to sit in my head and percolate for a while before i know what they mean, and can articulate them? in the overall lifeline. but that's s sort of rewriting history, and rewriting the way i want me to be.

it doesn't matter.

don't ever say it doesn't matter. i remember my mother crying one morning. and telling me that. don't ever say it doesn't matter. because it does matter, it really does.
but it's such a salve. how on earth can we possibly face the next day? how at all? by it doesn't matter. move on, brush over, look, over there, shiny. that's easier to face than impossible change, or total gloom. up and at 'em, a new day's dawning. time to pretend it doesn't matter.
but it does.