"These things become forgotten with time"
I'm beginning to think that's a plain lie.
And all your bad decisions and experiences are still there somewhere in the attic, or better yet, in the attics basement,
brewing inside of some self-righteous cauldron.
Down there is where the devil plays,
Until one day you realize he's there, the Wizard of Oz, and you invite him inside for a beer with you and the rest of your characters.
Or one day he wins.
"But I meant so well," you'll say, "why does the lord spite me?"
And if your actions really were orchestrated by the devil, and he succeeded to blind you from your own true motives, who is at fault?
It's certainly not you, you were unaware! you were under a spell; you drank the potion of self,
thinking you have control of the horse, commanding where it goes with your dreamy whip of purpose and reason,
when really the horse goes wherever the fuck it wants to go.