The fourth Tread from “She Had To Go” (Poem):
“The Taste of Memory”

“Her blood touches my lips, reminiscing on the time when lust had its grip on me.” The slaughter was done, the blade of will had struck, and yet victory didn’t wipe the slate clean. Even in triumph, the residue lingers—a faint smear of her blood, lust’s essence, brushing my lips with a bitter taste that drags me back to darker days. It’s not a fresh wound, but a trace, a whisper of what was. This isn’t the sting of defeat; it’s the aftertaste of liberation, a reminder etched in sensation. Memory, I’ve learned, is a double-edged sword—it warns and wounds, heals and haunts, all at once.

That taste pulls me into the past with a force I can’t resist. I recall the grip—tight as a vice—when lust ruled my choices, its fingers coiled around my will. It whispered lies of fulfillment, soft and seductive, promising a sweetness that turned to ash in my mouth. Those were the days when past struggles defined me, when every step was shadowed by a hunger I couldn’t name. The blood on my lips now isn’t new—it’s the echo of those battles, a flavor that lingers long after the war is won. Soul refinement doesn’t erase the scars; it sanctifies them, turning stains into signposts of how far I’ve climbed.

The philosophy of memory offers a lens for this strange dance with the past. Søren Kierkegaard, the Danish thinker, wrote of repetition—not as mere recollection, but as the act of revisiting what was to understand it anew. He saw life as a spiral, where we circle back not to relive but to redeem. This taste on my lips is my repetition. It’s not defeat—it’s a sacrament, a bitter communion with the self I overcame. Each time her blood brushes me, I’m pulled back to the vice, the lies, the chains—but only to see them broken. Memory wounds me with its clarity, yet heals me with its distance. Past struggles don’t vanish; they linger as teachers, their lessons sharp and enduring.

There’s a quiet power in this residue. It’s not the thrill of lust’s old grip, but the weight of knowing I slipped free. The blood isn’t a trophy—it’s a mirror, reflecting a man who once knelt to desire and now stands over its corpse. Soul refinement is a slow burn, a process that doesn’t scrub the palate clean but leaves a taste you learn to carry. I don’t spit it out or swallow it whole—I let it sit, a bitter note that hums with meaning. Kierkegaard’s repetition isn’t about erasing the past; it’s about facing it until it bends to your truth. This taste is mine—a mark of liberation, not captivity.

But memory isn’t just my burden—it’s ours. We all carry tastes like this, don’t we? Fragments of past struggles that brush against us in quiet moments—a regret, a craving, a choice we barely survived. The philosophy of memory suggests these aren’t accidents; they’re threads in the tapestry of who we become. For me, it’s lust’s blood, a bitter sip that warns me of its grip and heals me with its absence. For you, it might be different—a different flavor, a different fight. Soul refinement doesn’t promise a spotless soul; it offers one that’s weathered, marked, and stronger for it.

So I ask: What memories do you carry that both haunt and heal? What taste lingers on your lips, pulling you back to your own darker days? The philosophy of memory doesn’t demand you forget—it asks you to taste again, to find the liberation in the bitterness. My bloodstained lips are proof of a war won. What’s yours?