I’ve always been like this. It doesn’t matter if I’m alone in bed or not. Stuff that happened today at work, last week, last year, five years ago, it’s all just there at the front of my brain when it’s supposed to be shelved away, like I’ve stored it all wrong, like my brain is one of those closets you never want to open because everything will fall out and crush you. My brain is all abandoned board games and broken lamps. Unworn sweaters you were too lazy to return. I worry that if I live long enough, the stuff will be too much and I’ll be glad when I start forgetting.
