Time is a thief.

Time is a thief. Like the gentle drizzle slowly dripping on a picture window, time blurs memories. Time wavers certainties.

I don't even remember how it felt anymore. I can't decide if it was real, or if I had imagined it all in my dream-filled head. I try to relive the moments, but all that remains is the nostalgic fondness for that time, that place where the sunshine seemed to brighten every corner, to fill every shadow.

Forgetting can be both frightening and relieving.