A black car pulls up, I get inside. I smile and check my make up in the mirror. I'm glad I'm in the car. I've made it this far. He's mellow. He rolls the car smoothly down first avenue. I feel the rush of the situation. I congratulate myself. I convince myself what I'm doing is okay. Me and him, we don't speak, we mumble a couple words, but we don't speak. Well, I speak occasionally, but I fumble every other word and I eventually give up out of something close to embarrassment. He pulls the car around into an empty lot and parks. I reach out and run my hand through his thick mass of curly hair. It's irrevocably soft. I go to move my hand down the side of his face and he's gone, evaporated. Dim motions, reminiscent of an old film, plays in my mental theatre.The film jerks and sways then fast forwards. It displays the darkest secrets of our relationship. I physically recoil from the film and command myself to stop. The film slowly halts and dissolves away. I am left beaten.

Emotionally, the memory I just experienced leaves me running on empty. Part of me smiles and misses the crazy life. The other part of me is in the fetal position. Drowning in the puddle of darkness and despair, the whirlpool of emotions suffocates. I slip away lonely, praying the memories won't fallow me into my dreams. An internal fire has been lit. I attempt to shut everything out of my mind. It doesn't work. Rushes of criticism, thick waves of blame and embarrassment come to me like nausea. These feelings diffuse with pride, sadness, and longing into a mist of raw emotion. Tears form but don't fall. My Pandora's box has been opened. It is my struggle now. A quiet storm forms with little trouble in my own bedroom.

My mind is beautiful, my mind is troubling. I sleep often, but often do I sleep well. I lie in bed and I stare and count the imperfections on the ceiling. If I get tired of staring at the ceiling, I close my eyes tight as possible and descend into the unforgivable darkness of my thoughts. Although I find this enjoyable at times, too often I find it a devious deed. Usually I do anything to keep my inner self out of my dangerously messy mind. I hopelessly push memories to the dark corners of my head like one might push dirty clothes underneath a bed. I feel like if they are not thought about, maybe they will be recycled out of my brain, out of my memory. The irrational me is reminded this wish is completely ridiculous by the somewhat present logical me. At night though, there is no escaping the inescapable.

You know why I push thoughts to the jail cells of my mind and push myself out of my own mind? It's a bit unexplainable. In books they always talk about how the main character is unable to close their eyes without horrible flashbacks after tragedy occurs in their lives. You think you have an idea of what they're going through, how it feels to be intimidated and betrayed by your own memory, but the reality is you most likely don't. Because when you do arrive at that feeling, you're not quite sure why it's occurring or what is happening. Every scene, every thought feels like a sharp stab to your pride, ego, you name it. Shivers are sent through your body. You beg your own self, please don't take me back to that, please leave it alone. It's very borderline psychotic, pathetic. You feel like a wet sponge, trying to wring out the impossible crazy in yourself, but you can't.


The images appear so vivid. The sounds become real, people become touchable, I reach out to grab these images and they are gone. Mirages of the actual event. Part of me wants to have nothing to do with the past. I shy away from it, I shelter myself from it. Relief washes over me that the image is gone. The other intangible part of me wants to gamble with it. The other part wants to desperately tear it from its confines and lap up every last fiber of the memory. That part of me cries out in fury and frustration because the memory is gone.

Betrayal of the mind. I pray that someday I will creep into the world of slumber with no troubles.