I can’t help but to continuously find myself sitting in any one of a million random circumstances, pondering my own sanity and reality; anchoring a new, however, just as miserable, snapshot of myself into the very essence of my own perception. The resulting mental pictures are always cataloged away and eventually posted to the vast cork-board within my recall deposit account– perpetually building a story of my experience that only I can touch upon as time goes by.
When your existence has been picked up from beneath you, the flow of blood in your very body stopped like a clock and then poured tragically down an elusive drain that you will never locate again afterward; when your most prized (and only) belongings are stripped from your being down to the marrow and then that too, is sucked dry by the heat of the desert and desolate place that your carcass is dropped to rot away…
It’s impossible then, to make any sense of the photo-collage in your brain anymore – being only able to recognize your own face and the faces of the people you’ve always loved scattered throughout the piles of aesthetically chaotic history in scrap form. Any of the rest of your time feels wasted, outside of the time that you spend wandering around the darkened corridor between those images on deposit– reaching in vain for the seemingly tangible after-shadows that scatter to quickly fade the closer you gain on them; tears of frustration stained permanently down your weathered and surprisingly unfamiliar face; your only regularly practiced routine comes in the form of the persistent, panicky breaths that drive you forward into the unknown.
Reality, as it turns out, smiles freely upon the Evil.
Real Life doesn’t pulse crimson liquid through any collectively fed veins – and, all that this thing ‘Reality’ holds any appreciation for at all is the death throes of something inspirational, something that’s elegantly and beautifully filled with a light that’s been snuffed out and frozen in archaic darkness; Real Life only recognizes the glass when it’s half empty. Reality remains just that – reality: incapable of bending the parameters to shape into anything other than itself. Reality plays favorites. Reality is not a team player, and if it were, it would be on the opposing team; waiting to clothesline me at the waistline. No, reality has never been a friend to me; it has only come to elude me more and more as the years of my life –
what was supposed to have been my life – my family – my motherhood – my memories…
have passed through time painfully, without meaning or satisfaction or fruition.
The photo-board in my brain is beautiful. It holds mental snapshots that are sacred to me; the moments in time that manage to stand out against the vastness of eternal space behind them – bright and colorful with the most vivid of my senses attached to each one somehow: the smells of the autumn ocean or a funnel cake; the unexceptional sight of a faltering kite as it struggles in a losing battle with the dying evening wind against a burning-red sunset; the mundane sound of a child calling out to its mother from a short distance away; the feel of a warm afternoon’s slowly shifting breeze dragging its way through the neighborhood – each description coming to the forefront of a snapshot for a turn to tell its story.
The mental deposit account I call my own is full of life and love and loss and laughter and tears; just the same as anyone’s would be; there is so much data there that it can be confusing at times to tell which year a certain image should be filed under or with which file. Year after year of my recollection vault, there remains an abundance of snapshots to look through in my quiet moments alone; and then, something changes.
It’s like someone pressed pause and everything stops – no colors or senses, no emotion or psychological stimulus of any kind…no photos, no moments snapped into my time log for good because I have that much of a desire to keep them always. No nothing. When the board slowly begins to display cerebral imaging again, they are dark and gruesome – out of order and have unfamiliar, hollowness attached to them. There, a story is trying to unfold through the chaos of the board, trying to come together to paint a picture as vivid as the ones of the cherished times before.
The desperate scattering of images across a bloodied crime scene that is freshly taped off at the edges, cutting a bright yellow streak around the perimeter of my mental cork-board – warning me not dig any deeper for the answers that I seek in order to understand the story behind the snapshots on its surface…