Memory and it's Sickness

Haunted by memories upon every new corner turned. Beauty and tragedy never stray far from one another and neither does remembrance stray from me. I am haunted by all that I have done and all I have not yet become. I spend days seeing new sights and all that sticks to me is the consuming feeling, I’ve been here before, seen this before, lived this before. 


I walk the halls of my high school while I see the newness of a small American town. I step upon the cracks of the old city of Jerusalem while I ride through a crowded city new to me. Then I see the hills of a country I’ve never been and wish for more wonder than I can grasp. 


My mind was not made for this world. Of that I am partially convinced. Time and all it wilds has no sense or reason or meaning inside the confines of my woefully romantic mind. 


I am trapped and stuck and doomed to relive every decision I have ever dared to make. I can feel the dust of the old city still cling to my skin, it permeates my very bones. The sun of the island still burns under my skin and keeps me warm, too warm. My feet have yet to understand we no longer walk the brick laid roads of Amsterdam. 


I am a culmination of every place I’ve every been and I’ve travelled far and wide. I am a walking contradiction, down to my very name. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll live up to my prophetic nature or maybe I’ll remain the poet daughter of a prophet. Only time will stand the test of seeing what I become, of seeing what I could have been. I suppose what I’m saying is that I have two thoughts, two feelings, two knowings, and they are stuck together. And I have yet to break what interlocks them. 


I am haunted and I am blessed and I am more than I will ever understand. And remembrance remains my enemy as much as my friend, which is to say remembrance and I do not see eye to eye. I think I think too much and I know I feel deeper than I ever wished to. 


I live in a mind of great extremes and of wild imagining. It is not such a bad place to be. Because the grass is always greener in the other side. Because if all it ever was was brown and dying why would we ever work up the nerve to try try again. Still I wish to be left alone, to not relive all I’ve said, to not create regret where there was none.


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