I have never understood why people throw out photos of old romantic relationships.
Well, that’s not quite true. Let me start over.
I am not one of those people.
My past has been filled with pain. Endless pain. Suffering and depression beyond belief. Private pain suffered in silence, rarely shared with anyone, even those closest to me. Deep depression. Mental anguish caused by mental illness.
The rarest of memories to me are the happy moments captured on film. And the happiest of times were those spent in romance. So I have always kept the pictures. Tiny, priceless mementos, fleeting glimpses of a happy life like satellite pictures of icebergs melting as they drift south from the arctic.
I have kept the photos, whether print or digital, close to me always and I have found them a source of strength.
Are not our romantic relationships the experiences that define us most as people? Are...
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