Circumference of Memory

something I found

I found a memory under the floorboards that I did not know still existed. It was rotted by time and paled by shadows but I picked it out of the dark and held it in my hand like I would a beating heart. It pains me to recall and listen to the sounds of the dreams echo through my skull like a bundle of bricks falling from the sky and landing at my doorstep. Clashes of thoughts like waves behind the my eyes -- we are eyes, I am eyes, I am in my eyes, your in mine and I'm in yours -- like mirrors looking into each other, forever falling into the cascading parallels. The diamond shines pathetically in my palm; it was hers, given to her by who? -- me? I don't even remember. I remember the way it latched itself to her finger and fed off of her soul and grew bigger and brighter with each day. It wasn't worth spending all that money on -- here it is now in my hand, not even on a finger. Its been lost all these years under the floor, and even though she sleeps in a different void than ours I can still feel her warmth resonated on the ring, like the feeling of a trigger that has just been pulled, it is cold to the touch, yes, but the cold metal has been dulled by the warm finger that pulled it . . . the cold now a ghost in itself, and every time the wind blows outside and whispers through the window I feel a warm breath on the back of my neck or a caress through my hair, but I know it is nothing -- just the wind. The little piece of memory that knotted our souls can't even remember her, and in time unlatched itself from meaning, from sentimental value and grew cold in the dark. When was the last time I saw this on her finger? Was it when she threw the glass bottles at me? Was it in the reflection of the mirror when she buttoned the jewels to her ear lobes like a queen? Was it in the void of sleep where I kissed her hand and the cold metal warmed by her pumping blood sent the ring falling through the mist of non reality -- the fog of memory and the cloudy dream -- falling, forever falling through time and void and the blackness of space and the blackness of my heart, and the paleness of my memory, falling, forever falling . . . or did she bury the only symbol, the only proof of our love (was it love?) under the floorboards, hidden from the light of my tired eye, hidden for no one to find, hidden forever in the place where the past remains? I am so tired of remembering. It only hurts, the good memories, the bad ones; the very sound of her voice in my swollen brain is enough to make me put her barrel in my mouth and pull her cold trigger, and maybe her bullet will send me soaring up into the sky, somewhere where I can find another piece of memory that she has left behind for me to find. . .

Author's Note

A memory

Reviews

[Caroline Hart]

Wow, this is beautifully written! Your description of memory, loss and hurt are graceful, yet severe! I really enjoyed this :) And perfect title - it grabbed my attention and sucked me in! well done

[Chadvonswan]

Thanks for reading!

[Rene Salinas]

I have always ascribed to the image of going through the place where memories are stored as the "chorridor of chameleons" because you can go through a million times yet see different things. The conviction and the fluidity of this writing is invigorating to say the least. The subjectives aside it made me smile, also made me feel accompanied, Though lost as well but hey, isn't a good job when you know someone else is also going through something similar to what you are going through? So on that level highly applauded. A minor insignificance with recpect to the can of sardines formatting which in my "stupidity" makes the writing feel compressed and contained. I know easily solved right? Preference even ? Of course.. But that stuck out. The other thing which hit me as I was reading is the levels of warmth represented here it goes in and out of hot and cold. Hot to the things that relate to emotion like love so on so forth but always imbued by rationality, frozen cold fragmentation, sort of thing. Don't get me wrong I love that! Normally that's a bad sign though, so I thought I'd mention that too. At the end of the day the image of her, which I assume for all intense and purposes is lovely.

Hunts.

I reckon that's not the only hunting reckless memory you have going on.

Greatly enjoyed!

Thankyou

[Chadvonswan]

Thank you very much for reading. Much appreciated. (:

[Jack Wolfe]

I really enjoyed this, the harsh realities of a single memory, or in this case a memento which housed a memory, traces of feelings and depth. The narrator is a cold shell of his previous self, loathed in the depression of abandonment, thus levity waits in different realm, in silence, in hope of being whole once more. I would recommend breaking this up some, as it was clustered and a tad hard to read, but still enjoyable.

[ZackOfBridge]

Yes. I loved it. How love and materials become twined in time. An object can be a portal into uncontrollable and repressed memories.

[Chadvonswan]

You see thru the words Zak, you see the meaning behind the words, its there, its all there, invisible it may be, but you see it..