Resurrection

My mom has started writing her memoirs lately. Her relating them to me in front of her mother bonds three generations of women together in a history of follies and flounders, successes and smiles. We have a lot in common; loves found and lost, heart wrenching guilt and regret, trials and tribulations, every human experience and emotion we have lived through and the only difference is the era we lived through them. Maiden Mother Crone sitting together crying and laughing about the past, some clinging, some forgetting, some pretending to let go. My horoscope today told me not to crumble under the pressure and perservere. I came home wanting to leave everything I have behind, go screw my ex boyfriend from highschool who is married now, have his baby and live in a shack by myself and the baby somewhere. Start fresh and new, a Mother-Hermit in the woods without any past or present to bind me. How fucking crazy am I to think that. This is what mulling over my history and the history of my previous DNA donors does to me. Fuck the past, that shit is tired. I look at it and love it and put it away because keeping that door open makes me feel like doing crazy shit that doesn't even make any sense like leaving my dream life with my dream house and boyfriend and career and friends and pets. So out I go, into the world, some makeshift performer named Smasheltooth who doesn't hardly know how to match a beat but revels in the connection between stage and crowd. That's all I have to offer right now and that's good enough for me. Would be better if I had that kid though; another representative of a different era to be sprinkled on by its mother's past, a twisted thread to enforce the fact that emotions resurrected from memoirs are in fact timeless and universal.