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The funny thing about sounds is that your mind doesn’t catalog the mundane as if it’s the last time you’ll hear it. It’s easy for us to experience a moment and commit what it looks like and feels like to memory, but it’s the sounds that fade the quickest.
Most days, I’m simply surviving, and when you’re simply surviving, people’s poor opinions of you start to matter less and less.
“Well, we all have to grow up sometimes, you know? The real world isn’t as forgiving as daydreams,”
My mom, probably. I always liked the idea of that one, of my mother, watching over me, probably hurt and disappointed, but trying to save me all the same.
Sometimes I wish I had recorded those sessions, that I had her voice saved somewhere so when the memories start to fade, I can replay them, resharpen the memories, since they’re all I have of her anymore.
It’s actually cruel that our mind saves memories, the more painful, the more crystal clear ones, but doesn’t save sounds the same way, doesn’t capture the way the end of a sentence dips lower, the way one single word can contain three emotions at once.
