Just a Thought, Really

A thought. A memory. A hiccup in the subconscience. Why is it that we go back in time to our happiest times and our heaviest times? Is it that we are masochistic creatures who enjoy the torture or is it because Freud said so? Why do we look back on those whose lives have interrupted our own and have changed ours, if only by the flicker of a flame, and want them back in our lives, even if it would hurt us in the end, just knowing they are there, that you can rely on them to do something other than forget? What is life, but one long misunderstanding of the past, looking back on it, wanting it back, never wanting it back, hating it, loving it, loathing it. Bumping into people who you used to know like the back of your hand, what do you do when you realize that that person doesn't even know himself? Thoughts. Memories. Hiccups.