when i was a kid, i was really afraid of losing my memories. as a child i tried to satisfy the cravings of my senses in recording the sights and colors and sounds and smells of the world. then, i thought it was just something about being a kid, a ravenous hunger for stimuli. now, i think that was when i started to be the starving, struggling artiste-poet that i am. back to the memory, i was afraid i would one day lose them. i set my eyes to remember the details, details that i would run like a movie inside my head when i close my eyes in the darkness.
if only i had known that some memories are better left forgotten.
you could say i had a very good childhood, i was a happy kid, i was loved, and i guess that is a reason why i did not want my memories to fade away like photographs being eaten by the hungry patient mouths of time.
but i grew up. and as they say, the rest of it, is history. or so it seems.
memory is such a good backstabber. you sit on your favorite spot, sipping coffee with the cigarettes and then someone would pass, and a whiff of a woman's perfume ignites memories, unlocking them, and they hit you fast and present, with each breath. you cannot help but stand against the waves of memories, of emotions raging and overflowing. hate love lust anger envy rejection, each has their own way of being drawn together, to produce something greater, much more painful.
i have friends who always comment that they envy me. they envy that i could spun my crafts i dare call poetry as easily as i breathe. or so it seems to them. i always tell them that i would be willing to trade my poetry if they could give me back one thing.
innocence.
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