within our human souls we harbor a level of resentment for others. in some, the level is unreadable. like the LIPA meter in our basements in the dead of winter when we have no money for heat. in others, the blackness of unattainable “perfect” relationships when we’re lonely or the sting of losing our closest friend will inevitably swallow us whole. we create these maps, these hand drawn, vintage-looking maps, to lead us to a haven in which we can convince ourselves these things no longer matter, that they were never there at all.

and this is the problem. eternal sunshine of the spotless mind syndrome. erasing what has been said or what has been done is impossible. these memories stay with us forever – almost like glitter. once they’ve stuck, they are with you for life. and in the interest of the human race, we cope. or we don’t; it’s the freedom of choice that sometimes gets us stuck.

the latter is not always the hardest. throwing tantrums or writing endless poetry on the same subject is healing and allows us to release the tension that stews inside of us. we learn ways to cope, or, again, we don’t. but coping comes with fresh wounds. it is suturing a deep cut without enough staples. it’s a cover up of murder – because, honestly, sometimes it feels that way. like murder. like someone has ripped out your heart. like someone has thrown salt into your eyes. like the oceans’ dried up.