The Years I Don’t Remember

(c) all lyrics by Faith L.C. There are pieces of my life that never settled into place. Whole months blur like rain on glass, faces fading before I learn their names. I try to trace the outline of the person I was back then, but every time I reach for it, my hands close on nothing again. Some memories feel borrowed, some feel slightly out of frame — like I lived a life beside my own and never learned its name. These are the years I don’t remember, the days that slipped right through the seams. Time wrote whole chapters without me, left me waking in between. I can’t rebuild what never landed, can’t fix what never learned to stay — but I carry all the empty spaces like they’re part of me anyway. People tell me stories I’m supposed to recognise. I nod along, but inside it’s just static and flashing lights. There are echoes of a laughter I’m not sure was ever mine — shadows of some version of me I only saw in passing time. Some moments fall like postcards from a place I’ve never been — close enough to feel familiar, too far off to let me in. These are the years I don’t remember, the days that slipped right through the seams. Time wrote whole chapters without me, left me waking in between. I can’t rebuild what never landed, can’t fix what never learned to stay — but I carry all the empty spaces like they’re part of me anyway. Maybe we’re all mosaics made of what we lost and what remained — fractured shapes and half-formed memories that still add up to something named. These are the years I don’t remember, but maybe they remember me. In every gap, a quiet whisper of who I almost used to be. I won’t chase ghosts I can’t recover, won’t pretend the past was clear — I’ll just walk on with all the missing pieces, and the silence they leave here.