Happy memories make for the most haunting memories... To wake and reach for them, only to realize that you are reaching for a ghost... What greater pain is there than to hold on to someone who is no longer around? Dead, deceased, left behind, moved on from we. There is no matter in to which of these whom we cling to... There is no deeper affliction. It is a scar on our mind, our heart and our souls. We hold onto those we have lost and lock them in vaults deep within our hearts and we guard those vaults with our fragile existence... But as we float, dreamless in our beds, those vaults doors crack and our heart shatters, we cry out in our sleep for those mistakes we burden upon ourselves. We smile and cry with our eyes closed as the mind refuses to remember where we are. We are not in our warm beds, we are not lying in the dark, alone. We are with them. We meet their gaze and the past falls upon us without warning, without hesitation, to crush us when we awake. We hold their hand and hug, we kiss them and relive old conversations. We look at them and they look at us and their eyes burst with love... Are these memories a blessing? That we might again visit those happy days? Nay. They are a curse. For as beautiful as these fleeting, floating moments may be... When we awake, the cold, harsh reality of life falls back in. We roll over and lean in for a kiss, only to meet a cold, untouched pillow. We reach and grasp only sheets, curling them for but a moment in such a way that reminds you of the last time you made love. Your eyes fill with what feels hotter than blood and you weep, quietly, in the wee hours of the morning, letting no one see your shame. Your pain. The memories retreat to their vault and we put on a mask that is flimsier than a tear itself, one which everyone can see through. And yet we pretend that they cannot. And they pretend they cannot. Those memories are locked away, but their scars are there for everyone to see. Wide open. Gaping. Gushing pain and oozing heartache... We put a bandaid on them and then go through the day... They heal a little. And then we sleep... And in our sleep, we scratch those wounds even further open, hoping that our pain will be a penance, that they might return to our arms. That they might come and stitch, heal, the wounds that only they are capable of mending. In the end, we are left with only the nightmares of the cruelest sort... The ones which are kind to us. The ones which bring smiles to closed eyes and resting heads. Those which haunt us the most, because they are not about fear, but loss. They are not rooted in fantasy, they are rooted in reality. Any other nightmare, we can awaken from and rationalize it. Dispel it. Laugh at it. But not these... Because happy memories make for the most haunting of nightmares.
Posted on: Thu, 06 Mar 2014 08:05:28 +0000
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