Rome brings the pain to the forefront, makes it fresh and bright like picking at a scab that hasn't healed over, watching wet red blood well up and drip. It hasn't healed over, almost five years later, and I'm both afraid it's never going to, and dreading the moment when it might.
Sittin in a nargile cafe in the heart of Trastevere, drinking ceylon tea out of a proper tulip-shaped bardak, I pick at hte part of my memory that I've managed to lock away while in Scotland, and I can almost see the blood come up fresh. It's not easy, and it's not painless, but it feels right, the way Izmir did once and never might again.
I don't know if I'd warn people who want to put themselves through this particular pain away from doing it, even if I could, even if they would listen. Because the scars you carry on your heart... they just remind you that there was another piece there, once, and that you've left it behind in a place that has earned it.
And remembering that, even for a moment, is worth the pain.