I always find my memories more beautiful when I am nostalgic and long for familiarity. I could forget all the bad and remember everything in hazy warmth, wishing to go back to the good days which weren't very good at all. Cinnamon rolls taste sweeter nursed in the forgetfulness of my memories, while half-imagined conversations rolled off the tongue easier in memory.

Why is there always this constant distaste for the present? Reality merely doesn't satisfy my need for belonging, while memory, in not belonging, seems the best place to be. I catch myself forgetting the worst parts of my high school life, and I realise I want to forget. It is simply too painful to remember my past and live my present bitterly. Either one has to be masked in falsehood, and only the past can be misrepresented because of the very fact that the present exists.