Memories Slowly Echoing

memories slowly echoing

No Time For Questions
Moments Swirling
Atop Hidden
Memories,
Slowly Echoing.

Often we’ll stumble upon something unexpected and our curiosity will grab us and not let go, yet even in the middle of this state of curiosity we’ll walk away thirstily dragging our tongues behind us. 

Why would we ignore the promise of understanding an idea, a person or an activity better? And why would we avoid possibly learning the how and why something was created? Why do we so easily give in to our memories slowly echoing in the back of our mind, our memories we thought erased or at least safely hidden deeply inside our mind. Why do we choose fear over curiosity time and again? it’s a puzzle and one that seems beyond understanding, at least when you’re in the middle of memories slowly echoing.

I’ve often found my self creating something that seems promising, it might be a story or quite possibly a marketing idea for a client. As I dive deeper into this new and exciting creative endeavor something grabs me, a feeling of tightness in my shoulders and neck. If I’m in touch with this feeling before it escalates I can often short circuit it, often dissolve it before it grabs even a smidgen of ground in my mind. But truth be told I ignore it far more than I’d like to admit. And the ignoring rapidly cedes ground to those pesky memories slowly echoing from deep in furthermost reaches of my mind.

Once these memories gain the upper hand the chances of successful resistance are nearly nonexistent, at this moment I’m captive to the sweeping darkness roaring toward its own delicious victory.

Unless you’ve experienced being derailed in the blink of an eye and your better self tumbling headfirst down the dark path to extinction you’ll have trouble recognizing this or relating to it. As the darkness sweeps over you in the manner of a dust storm rolling across the prairie erasing the sunlight and quite possibly the oxygen needed to breathe. Until you’ve wandered moment by moment in a land any sane person would never choose to visit, until you’ve experienced that you’ll not know the horror that births the death of curiosity.

In an alternate moment I might smile as this voracious visitor slowly yet rapidly immerses me in feelings from long ago feelings all jagged and sharp sounding like jangly fingernails upon an old porcelain tub as a breeze slashes among the dangling glass beaded chandelier. But as these memories slowly echoing take hold even the notion of an alternate moment is pulverized, and I must stand alone upon the ramparts watching and waiting for time to offer me its compassionate hand.

 

 

 

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