Riding in her car with her arm out the window, and a chill breeze over her goosebumps are eased by the sun's warmth. Cicadas sound the trumpets of summer, while Sweet Caroline plays to the scent of lilac, and for just a moment, she reminisces about the handful of childhood memories she's not sure are even real because they're…
She wakes each morning; sometimes, the saddest event of her day. Opening her eyes only to remember what used to be, and had fallen into the frey.
Before stepping out of bed, she steps through the tears draped over her cheeks, on a stroll down Memory Lane.
A funny thought passes through her mind, and she turns to tell the empty chair next to her, as if someone was still sitting at her side, waiting to hear what she has to say.
The pistol in her pocket has curiously removed serial numbers, and the skin around her ankles become galoshes, while she trudges the sewers of her own tragedies that, you indulge in while smiling, like you're breaking your drama diet by snacking on her darkest moments. Excerpts from her life on display, and behind it's back, it hides a knife…
She walks an aisle, illuminated by every mistake she didn't make, every truth she didn't fake, and lined by curtain call gutter rats, snapping their fingers, in two rows of standing novation. In this humid tunnel of degenerate air, who's molecules are so weighted by filth, they couldn't even float upward to better scented freedom, she finds herself in yet another defeating situation.
Those guns in her brain, their ammo never refrains but sustains every memory in emotional flames. Trauma has eaten holes through the moths who've attempted to set up shop in this drafty loft. The half melted swiss cheese that remains, stutters the words spilling from her mouth; has left grease stains on her name, on her life, on everything she's never done in vain. Blame points the finger, and paints the pain in her tears, as if pain had been brushed onto her soul by Monet. She weeps noxious liquid that bares the names of every ounce of regret that's ever drained from her lifeless body. She's still not herself, and questions if she'll ever be. Her eyes are sewn wide open when she realizes that, Memory Lane is full of road spikes.
When life throws not just forks in your road but dumps out your silverware, and junk drawers, you feel every thumb tac and stray nail. Every bent fork, and plastic spork to insult the wheels on your transition-mobile will slingshot you through the guardrail, and over the edge of your insanity, and denial.
This is where we have to make the conscious effort of deciding, whether we want to improve our lives, or toss ourselves into the glitch, and wait to fucking die.
If you can muster the courage, the tenacity, to give everyone, and everything you have ever thought to be true, a hard toss into the dumpster fire that is your life, you can turn and existential crisis into a critical monument to happiness.
It doesn't happen for most because most folks are just too comfortable in misery… BECAUSE misery is deceitful in that it will lie to you, coax you into it's pseudo-effortlessness. Misery can be accomplished in silence but there, you'll rarely find the voiceless; lying in wait, to proclaim their disgruntled opinions about this suggestion box they've overthrown. To most, the laziness of misery is so appealing that it's like, taking a seat at the round table for dinner. Everyone there is equally lazy, and sad, and content in both. Misery does indeed love it's company. Your miserable friends will assuredly hand you the keys to succeed, if to you, success is nothing ado with living, and growth but merely existing. To you, that roundtable dinner looks like fucking Thanksgiving, where the appetizers are anger, and suicidal thinking. The main course is bent and broken, and misconstrued into blind violence. For dessert, well have a slice of your finest silk lace, street novelties with a salty pallet of meringued overdose, laid gently on it's top. To the unhealed eye, a feast, for sure but it has been of absolutely no fucking use to you, and your future; should you survive long enough to explore it.
The bumps down memory lane are sometimes best left as the flooded potholes that they appear to be. Things that make us angry, and do damage when we traverse their gaping wounds. Leave the memories right where you left them, and instead, claw your way into the nearest sunset.