Unfinished memories- continuum

Sounds as black as the night of this tale I hear, and I wonder the matter that made this all up, wonder the heart that conceived this so, perhaps I might dare to provide an explanation for what occurred on that fateful day; alas it was the day I fell prisoner to that which afflicts me so, but for the sight I saw which bestuck to mine mind, never to go until I had replicated the deed- I ought to never have done so, for against my hope of relieving the mind of such torturous image, I only engraved it further, and became slave to it. Thus the memory remains unforgotten, and I slowly do not care for my beslaved state.

Then again, for another sound as black as the night on which this account is written, I remember the night on which I met with such fate as dealt with me, a very fatal blow; it was the night I sealed what torments me so. I became slave to it, I became lord to me; I kissed it eagerly, it killed me with reckless wanton. Then also, it is due to my foolishness- if I had only but paused to consider, I might have seen through the veil which was cast over mine eyes and not fallen to the claws beneath.

 Now I say to myself, I tried my best with no chance of success, going only in circles, cycles of vicious rebirths, stuck in reverse. All chances of fixing this error gone, slipped through my fingers. I sought for lights to guide me to peace, instead be met with another dose of the death drug; I loved and I died, and in me died all I’d vowed to live for.

Pale ghosts pass before my eyes, and I’m confronted with the deaths of each memory that suffered a cruel fate. None could fix them, as none can fix me. It can’t pass on, as I can’t pass on; we’re pilgrims on a never ending road of dead boredom- dusty roads with only the wind for company, and we’re sentenced to a non-existent life of loneliness.

I’m befuddled with one question, why am I me? Why do I see me through the eyes of another? Do I exist, or am I just a figment of my own imagination? This questions run through my mind like mice in the ceiling, one through many. To the pondering of these thoughts there can be no end, and much devotion to them has proven wearisome to my mind, but ponder them must I if I must keep what last strands or shreds of sanity I have left. When I get the answers to them, I might finally rest and truly smile, as cold water o’er a sun scorched earth.                                 

Author's Note

this is the second in the series of eight... lemme know what you think

Reviews

[Sunflowergrl]

simply wonderful ...i admire the way you write