Start with something, whether it be words or thought or action. Just do something, anything to avoid this dissipating grey matter, neurotic erosion.
"I don't exactly remember everything." My words are timid, pensive.
The moments revolve, coil and ignite; flashing images with no particular order.
I scrunch my iceman toes, attempting to conserve heat, but the cold still surpasses the fabric of my Converse. My muscles tense against abrasive arctic gusts. The bitter wind raises bristled hair above goose bumped flesh.
These pink fingers quiver in the grasp of an 'I heart New York" shot glass. I guzzle down Stolichnaya. The vodka is dry-ice against my tongue; molten silver.
Blurred peripherals detect a lone ember drowning in the ashtray, a Marlboro Smooth choking beneath garish glares of moonlight.
"And this kinda shit doesn't come with an instructional booklet. No more step by step direction to wipe your ass." I find her posture brutal, flexed and defiant.
And I am far too shmammered to speak with intentional sharpness, so I stutter through the syllables. "Are you deluded or simply o' so eager to forget?"
A slight smirk crease along her jaw, a gloat curved between the lips. "How hypocritical little Sister. Is this not the pot calling the kettle black?"
She whirled accusations of inescapable inferiority. The blame and guilt and it's your fault god damn it.
I waited for the words to sink from my gullet. But still she persisted, crooning of saran wrap skin and sociopathic episodes. Damnable disposition, those layers of impossible, inevitable self.
"Everything can be simple." She is self-assured, enlightened.
But it rings a bell, some memory from far too long ago. Quivering poser. Two-faced unstable motherfucker
"Did you really think it would all just stop? Poof. Gone? O' come on. I thought you to be too 'pessimistic' for all this blatant bullshit."
"Alas Sister, it was time to mature. I simply grew up and moved on." Her face exudes composure, smooth and indecipherable. She stares with serene eyes, beautifully distant.
This will convey the invalid - the dead space. No it is never simple, without aspects of austerity. It is merely a willing participant, definite and complex. Overtly overbearing reigns emanate shame and gracious pride. This impeccably heavy pressure; constant and inadvisable.
"I do not resemble my predecessor." She is blatant, fluidly assuming grandeur.
I am insistent, persistent, and outraged. "Do not mistake humility for austerity, Sister."
The wind is particles, ice cubes and atoms. Like nothingness and heaviness pressing inside skin.
"You do not acknowledge my penitence." She is awkward, shifting through compulsions, faltering in resolve.
I am strategic and pigheaded, pinpointing weakness, seeking gain. "Were you anticipating amnesty? Did you expect clemency from the damned?"
And she's busting into particles, the nothingness and heaviness breaking free from skin.
There was blood; magma and rust sprawling in inconspicuous trails. It was like moisture and release - innocent streaks of red.
I am precise, cutthroat. "Think of it as fortunate, a prosperous fault indeed."
She is leaking and weakening, succumbing to inevitability. "Don't accuse me of relapse."
"O' but Sister. I've caught you red handed."
Start with something, wether it be remembrance or meaning or idealistic recall. Just do something, anything to preserve memory.