What's revived is obvious.

It doesn't always have to be something obvious. 

I'm snapping- speaking before I think. I normally have a problem with the opposite. With not being able to think clearly enough to speak my thoughts. Or I decide against saying anything and later regret it. Later longing to have said the words I stand in the mirror proudly, boldly and confidently stating.

But I'm saying things before they've even been given a chance to process into thoughts.

I'm angry. Why am I so angry? Finding fault at every chance.
What is going on?

Then I'm reclusive. Quietly reflective. Seeking solitude in a loud and angry silence.

In the silence where my mind is busy and I swear must be audibly whirring, I remember.

And it's not always something obvious. 

I remember yesterday. A string a thoughts. A string of thoughts that began normally enough but ended miles away at something hurtful.

The affair. 
The gross details. The untold nefarious memories. It slithered into my day.

And it's not always obvious.

They're small recollections that time has aided me in easily brushing away. But there are times when these small pieces build up and stick like plaque.

A name which can only remind me of lies exchanged, words that wounded, a location that brings with it more questions, confessions dissected. These reside in passages of time that seem hollow except for everything surrounding the affair. And normally these small recollections are things that enter my thoughts and flee as quickly as it came. But sometimes these small pieces don't leave. These stupid pieces. Sometimes they are shaken enough to shift and stick together just right to create the picture.
And it's left sitting there waiting for me to see it. To acknowledge it. To step through some degree of pain all over again.
I can dispose of it quickly or wait for the pieces to fall away on their own, which usually takes much longer.

It's not always obvious until it's enough. 

It's enough to bring me back. It's enough to bring the hot, burning tears. It's enough to bring the vengeful anger. It's enough to bring the self disgust. It's enough to bring the blame. It's enough to bring the tethered and pulling sensations of my heart. To stop it from beating and watch it compensate with deflated movements. It's enough to force me to seek out some form of healing...again.

The picture the pieces created this time brought anger with it - which I prefer because anger doesn't stay long. When it brings the sadness and the bright red wounds is when I grow more troubled. It burrows in, unlike the anger. In those times it's easier to stare into the carved out memories and accept the blame and helplessness than it is to find the energy to fight it.
It's a long and patient wait or a fiercely fought battle to chase away what I thought was done. What I thought was healed.

I can never know how long it will take.

That part is never obvious.