Sometimes the meanings of things get warped, becoming that which you would never have intended them to be. You resist it with all your might, but your eyes are open and clear to what it now -is-. Your skins heals over the wound, as many deep wounds do, but inside it remains scarred, hallow.

Sometimes there simply is no "getting over it." Like the soldier with shrapnel still embedded within him, there is only moving on. One foot at a time brings the practice you need from averting the memory when you can. Occupying yourself with the matters of the present ground you against the past, but never doubt that as you age you can always go back if you so choose and, sometimes, when you had not, and taste copper.