The past is likened to a cup.

Filled with joy and sorrow, the fraying line between what makes you and what breaks you is ever so faint. Every time you walk down memory lane, you drink a bit of your pain for a fleeting moment of happiness. Red bull gives you wings; this glass makes you think. Memories, as the word itself suggests, is a bunch of good and bad times. Once you've broken things off with whoever, your cup cannot be refilled. The drink depletes with every sip. The taste intensifies at the very end, then fades into bland. No matter how many chugs you take, it is but plain water. It no longer renders you drunk and senseless. It no longer has any effect on you. You straggle to delve into the murky waters, the 'in between' again because you have come to become "addicted to a certain kind of sadness". But it will not take you. You have taken too much of the poison that your body has produced the antidote. This is no place for you anymore. Where to? Anywhere but here. Move on. It is a conclusion; there has been no decision to make. Move on.

My cup is close to empty.