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At some point, the old songs, you damn well know which ones, float through your airspace without dropping a bowling ball on your chest and making you want to cry a river.  You thought you wanted that.  But when it happens you realize it only means you have gone numb from Time.  And you have to know that isn't necessarily a beautiful thing.  Pure emotional convenience rarely is.  

And at some point all the old books, the ones that were like land mines you left around your life, almost hoping that every time you stepped on them they would tear you to shreds, are just eloquence.  You can almost say they never applied and recommend them to inquiring acquaintances without batting an eyelash.  You call that progress.  

So you start to lose count of all the ways in which "moving on" is the ugliest, the most blatant and horrifying thing.  And necessary.  

But you can count on one finger the times you've prayed for it all to go away.  For some kind of gorgeously embroidered amnesia to descend upon the collective brain and let you live.  

One time.  

That's how you know you meant it.