Memory

A memory. A moment. That miraculous epiphany when we can recall things we thought lost to that meandering encyclopedia of the brain. Memory seems so fleeting.

Yes, it's me. I'm back to writing. It feels almost as if I never had left, yet the clumsy erratic flow of my penmanship says much to the amount of time that has passed. My writing feels so out of practice, such a contrast to my memory of smoothly skating across the page, filling line after line effortlessly.

I have timidly sprung forth from my melancholy. I feel so upbeat and optimistic. The wonders that love works chemically on the brain. I feel life is winsome, eternally youthful. I feel more sociable than I have in my entire life.

I can look at art again. I mean, not that I couldn't look at it before; I just see it all with newer eyes. I can truly look at it, deep into the sophisticated parable of its aesthetics. Devour it, absorb it.

I remember I fell sobbing hysterically on the ground. I couldn't seem to help it. I was told later that I was experiencing was grief. Grief. I had never felt grief before. It was....awful. I can't describe it. It was as if all the joy and hope just left me, sparked instantaneously by that catalyst. My chest felt as if it was pressed and I could barely breathe, my lips desperately gasping for air through a narrow, closing straw. Laying there. Not getting up because your alien body is shaking so much, not understanding that it's the sobs that's making you shake so much. Everything is blurry, maybe it's tears, or the fact that you can't feel your face. Trying frantically to simply breathe.

It's such a hazy memory, like trying to guess the sun's position behind the suffocation of clouds. Thank the gods for clouds.