Living in the past is like sitting in a room with the lights off. It is quiet and peaceful in the half-light of the muted, afternoon sun as it breaks through the tiny slits in the blinds, its glowing rays painting the walls with a soft flicker that lulls you to sleep. But near dusk, you awaken and everything around you is slowly disappearing as evening gradually darkens the room. Then all of it is gone. This is where I am now, in a dark place grasping for the past that is no longer visible; I’m not sure if it was even real.