Delete, delete, delete

For the past while, I've been contemplating deleting old text messages from my phone because they were sent when things were better with Crazy and myself. They were the cute ones, the sweet ones, the caring ones. The ones I kept were the ones that had a connection to a place and time, an emotion, a moment.

But they also reminded me of a time that is now gone.

I can no longer look at them without thinking of the good (and now bad) times associated with them. They no longer make me grin and smile in a goofy way. Now, I feel the opposite of that.

The person who smiled now sneers and the flicker of joy is now a burning amber of resent and anger. He would always turn on a dime if others didn't give him the attention he wanted/craved; making them out to be the bad guys even if they're not.

He's a petulant child and took a long time for me to see that.

So, I start to delete text messages. A lot of them. Delete, delete, delete. The texts don't mean what they originally did. It makes me sad scrolling through them, and I already have enough moments in my life that can bring me to tears; I don't need more of them.

Still, I keep the group when Crazy became increasingly psychotic because those make me smile. At least I can find some sort of happiness over the breakdown of another (and they're going to make great fodder for my book).