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Will fight you if you aren't kind to yourself.

There is nothing else remotely interesting about me that I could write here.
No, that's literally it.

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Patchwork Memories

February 11, 2021

PROMPT: Memory Object

A satchel hanging on the door;  a mug of tea gone cold.
The ghosts of laughter still in the halls like a story left untold. 
He peeks into rooms and crevices,  poking at his mind,
He draws conclusions and he relishes in the worlds that he can find. 
The front room transports him to his youth,  drawing memory and pictures alike-
Recalling a house where he ran uncouth,  and a black kitten sat upon a red trike.
The kitchen brought the grazing of knees, a whirlwind summer romance,
Sharing gifts in the winter breeze, and a drunken attempt at a dance. 
Memories plunge into his conscience, forever suspended in the boundaries of his home,
In the garden singing songs of nonsense with friends, whilst playing catch with a gnome. 
Like a drunk, he drinks in his past drowning as he devours his life,
Eyes (focused but still seeming glassed) show the pain of recalling his strife 

A photograph with forgotten faces; a needle scratching futile on vinyl; 
A troubling image permeates him, in places, reminding him only one destination is final. 
The walls close in around him, doors slamming as he treads past-
Uncertainty surrounds him until a single open door stands fast.
His childhood room. In his childhood home. His past races up to greet him- 
A batman duvet, a broken comb, and a small figure waiting to meet him. 

A small black cat, with a small yellow eye, and a blue one too, to remind him, 
That although he’d run, his own fixed on the sky, his life would always find him. 
Bitterness sweeps across his heart, a subtle melancholy longing, 
But remembrance was key in playing his part, and he finally felt like belonging.  
As he scoops up the cat and retraces his steps, he thinks not about where he is going, 
Instead, he looks to the sky, not where he goes next, and harvests seeds he’d always been sowing.

Beyond the house, in the trees, is a tire hanging from a rope, 
He sits there now, feeling at ease, and he finally dares to hope.
There he decides, rather imperiously to find his place in the world and to thrive!
There he decides to stop taking life so seriously, because no one gets out alive. 
Because memories remind us of where we have been, and guide us on the chance we fall flat. 
For him all it took, in all he had seen, was the thought of a boy, a red trike, and a black cat. 


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  • February 11, 2021 - 6:16pm (Now Viewing)

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  • sci-Fi

    oh wow, I love this

    about 1 month ago
  • Zinniav

    Oh! this is so good!

    about 1 month ago