Try This

Throw something new into the gestalt of old memories: a shocker maybe, a red notecard in a mess of white ones. Now your eye halts at the bright crimson and doesn't know where else to go. Did you do this intentionally? Because your memories became too unwieldy to carry, sort through, ruminate on? Was it exhaustion or self-trickery that made you create a self-imposed stop sign? Don't go here, it tells you. There is nothing new to be learned, nothing new to be said. Stop here, it tells you, a shorthand mess of cards. House of cards, memories of cards. Is this a real stop or simply a yield?