Why? I don't know. It just was.
I remember when I was in second grade, I laid on the dining room floor and wrote out with pencil on sheets of white lined paper "I hate myself" over a hundred times.
Why do I remember this? I can recall this moment as clear as I can recall family vacations to Mexico and trips to Disney World.
Sometimes memories have a purpose. Now I just have to figure out why I remember this and how to turn it into something beautiful.
Beauty from ashes.