Sin Of Memory

 

Sin Of Memory.

          taking the semblance of several journeys.

Living at a crossroads is very scary. The mind's wounds come to perform their mystics before your eyes, pulling you into a wormhole of all your fears. They steal your breath and come alive. 

You single out one of the selves you've developed from previous years and sit with them at the junction of your in-betweens. The state of your indecisiveness clouds your reasoning and makes your sentiments healthy, turning some of them into liars, which makes you a liar too. 

Your body and soul are forced to remember all the dying it has done to keep growing. Those memories committed a sin by not helping you forget the times you didn't belong to your own body.

 The times staying hurt you more than the physical injury it has sustained, every place in the history of the remembrance your body, lets go of growing because it burns. 

All the love it had to face became a tiny piece of heaven that turned into hell. A celestial that faced a thousand death foretold in the hands of every self you had to become because of what your heart felt, a growing intimacy that became a chase in the wind.

There is harmony in becoming, stretching beyond will and reason that makes living worth it. You will look back and smile, they told you. Then, your next step is waiting to exhale the heavy lifting that's hidden in your tracks, while taking up another challenge. 

But what happens before then? The life you had to grow into, the smiles that lit up the dead lanterns in your hearts; the quiet voices you heard that ushered you to sleep; the music that gives your depression words; an explanation to your imaginary therapist; the lyrics that brought out the poetry in another's heart; the crying nights where time threw you a memory party and you feel the pain of your aloneness through sarcasm. 

Intimacies that lingered and became questions that only time and fate can answer to. 

The quiet hours of Say me a prayer and the drunkenness of I am tired. What happens to these moments of laughter and jokes that are no longer funny, the bickering of love that's hidden, estranged from? 

The late-night tears in photographs are too mysterious for words. Music is too bland to listen to until someone sings it out and nurses you back to sanity. Maybe you failed to realize but there is a semblance that is attached to growth, spiced with tears, loss, and grief.  

You take note of these more because you are a reflection of those you have loved or those you still love, taking the shapes of the little fragments of themselves they buried in you. 

You either heal from it or decay with it. Time passes and you carry them with you, in the music you listen to, the words flying from your mouth, the wistful smiles, blurry photographs, and intimacy that's wailing to be felt. 

You become a semblance—a better form—of all that they are. You feel their words whisper out of your body just as you dance to happy tunes with sad moves.

 You break more than once because they too are breaking. You sit with the blank noise of your conversations, reminiscing every ingenuity that was home. 

You look for your next words in the song Trampoline by Zayn featuring Shaed, you seek help from Control by Zoe Wees, and you still hold on even to Sia's House on fire.

 You leave your world behind and wail through Bird Set free by Sia, you think of dying again and tremble at the edge of Golden Shore by Kyle Neal. With all your questions you try to be happy by chewing This Is What Makes Us Girls by Lana Del Rey. 

You shiver in your sleep, as Chemtrails Over The Country Club is controlling your dreams into its own madness. You welcome darkness for the umpteenth time using Sound Of Silence by Simon & Garfunkel, you are filled with regrets after Jacob Banks' Chainsmoking simply told you the truth you will ignore. 

You are still trying to get to the root of your becoming because Nina Simone's Black Bird is always there for you. You are chasing the wind with Tom Odell's Another love until you are struck down by the lessons of Dean Lewis' Waves. 

You still try to listen to Heal by Tom Odell when you know full well that your stubbornness has led you to Sasha Sloan's Dancing With Your Ghost because Nowhere by Black Match is quietly eating you alive. 

You seek a penny for your thoughts when you sit with the questions. Would you forgive the sins your memory has committed against your body and soul? 

The times, it shoved nostalgia down your throat because it had been buried for too long? Would you listen to your memory whispering the words from Golden Leaves by Passenger? 

I feel like I'd choke

unless I spit it out. 

Still smell of smoke although the fire's gone out. 

Can't live with you but I'd die without you.

Your being is the tiny piece of the people that lived in that little shelter of your heart. When your reflection forms, it is like taking the form of the sun. Everyone gets affected. 

You smile, it gets infectious. You talk smart, everyone takes something. You get angry, everyone notices your outburst. You go to sleep and it is quiet but the night still moves, the stars come, the moon visits monthly, then rains. 

The sky stays, and time is continuous. When all is said and done you take the form of the moon; a dark, lonely and beautiful place. Everyone feels or sees it too. If they don't, you see it in them. This is what makes you a semblance of several journeys.

When you take a semblance, you become a House of Glass that shatters and cannot be glued back after taking so much to build. 

Each piece graces you with a new path, a new self in all your in-betweens. A remembrance of the old ones. On each remembrance, there is a bereaved country once lived, you. 

That's the sin of memory, eating you alive until you finally disappear.                                                 

 

About The Author

Hola,

My name is Izogié. I'm a creative writer, essayist, blogger, designer and an artistic storyteller. I am a sojourner that bears the weight of an old soul, with lots of story floating in my veins. Tales that hates the rules but paves a path on its own.

I believe solely in spiritual growth, the surrealism of stories and nature. I have a blog where I share the transcripts of my mind.