Memory Cycles



Has to be the most difficult thing

I’ve ever done.

Memory is an odd thing;

Like a leech

That doesn’t know when to stop sucking.

It bit my mind

And drank my sanity,

And kept on.

I was leaking

And I waited for my blood to clot,

But it never did.

But I, a bit odd too,

Took to liking it-

The leech and its sucking.

I fed it and played with it,

I named it,

And grew fond of it.

As if we were one being,

The leech and I,

We kept on.

And one night I realised

That I could pretend it never existed,

And so it never did.

It was simple, really.

I told myself there was no leech,

And I kept on.

But every now and then,

I’d feel it moving quietly,

Slowly through the deepest parts of my mind.

And then I would gently lull it to sleep.

A sort of Death Sleep.

Coaxing it into believing it never existed.

And the creature that sucked blood,

I taught to suck its own life,

Until it really ceased to exist.


Has to be the easiest thing

I’ve ever done.



Forgetting makes me numb.
Each memory I kill
Turns into a strong anesthetic
That I drink up with a sick thirst.
I’m wide awake, but nothing ever hurts.
I can see myself bleeding:
Bright red thick blood.
I marvel at the rich colour.
I touch it,
Shuddering at the quiet texture,
And at the thought that that’s all it is to me
-A texture.
Bright red thick blood,
And I can’t seem to place it.
What is it supposed to make me feel?
I search whatever is left of my memory for a cue.
Pain, I vaguely remembered,
Or some such thing.
Bright red thick blood.
I long to feel it.
I close my eyes
And try to build on my half-memories of Pain,
Part by part,
Until I faintly recognised it.
It hung on to the bottom of my heart,
Like a little person trying to keep from falling off.
I open my eyes,
And the little person disappears.
I quickly close them again.
It felt strangely nice,
This heaviness.
Like guilty pleasure.
Like turning on a tap in my mind,
And consciously feeling the water
Trickle deliberately through every part of me,
Drop by drop.
Until I am conscious of nothing else.
And soon enough,
I have trouble opening my eyes.
Not because I cannot,
But because I do not want to anymore.
And I forget that there was a reason why
I had forgotten the things I had forgotten.


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  1. Purnima

    That was beautiful.

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