Any act of starting over has incidentals. You can lose your Netflix account, for example, and even entire neighborhoods. On bad days it feels like you’ve lost years, until insidious memories sneak into your brain and remind you of all the good things, the growth. How could those years be lost? They’re practically part of your muscle memory.
Every Monday I am recollecting the lost bits. Rediscovering the Before of Bastilla and Bujalski. Dancing with someone I thought was dead. I am not being known; I am remembering myself. And when that’s all taken care of, then. Then is when we start over.