We all like to pretend that we're okay. We all like to pretend there is nothing bugging us. We go through the day smiling, laughing at things, and being generally happy. But then we get home, our minds start to slow down, and we start to think about the thing in the back of it all. The thing that we like to pretend isn't there. What do you whisper in the dark at night? Do you ask questions? What answers do you seek? Do they come to you in your dreams? Your mind races with all the questions and the probable answers. But somehow you don't beleive any of it. Maybe the answer comes to you the next day? When you hear two words, your thoughts begin to slow once again and that looming precense of past creeps out of its dark cave, to haunt you until you can shake it off. They say time heals all wounds. These ones too I suppose, but how much time? Surely not that long, "It's not that big of deal, I'm almost over it" you say to the questioners, the people who sense something is bugging you. But you lie to yourself. Which is almost as bad as lying to someone you love. We all like to pretend. We all like to pretend we don't think about it. Atleast, that's how it is for me.