Old friends, old wounds

Pause. Stop. I gripped onto the ledge of the well-worn bed. The unusual habit of chewing on my bottom lip, the nonchalance of the matter, and the lack of enthusiasm I had, a slight tinge of melancholy. Why should I be?

 It's not as if I am going to see a person I despise. A psychological grief giver. I was going to see a friend, an old one be it, but still a friend.

 But secretly I know why. 

I never liked my past and that is no secret. The idea of moving forward stopped me from remembering. The way running stops you from remembering anything else. You just run. I sit back down onto the bed. 

The idea of old friends, makes me utterly nervous, because with old friends is the renewal of old wounds. They say that we tend to remember the good things and stop remembering the bad. I tend not too. And it isn't just because they gave me any pain, it's just my memory fused everything into a block of equal emotion. 

I know I fear the irrational. But still I lay in bed.