The toys I used to love,
The loves I have outgrown,
The hungry dogs of hopes,
Which have devoured
One another,
/
Voids, interspersed with holes,
Mountains of wind and smoke,
Oceans, painted on desert sands
By jinns and ghosts –
/
My memories;
/
At my house at the edge of the world,
With cracked windows and doors agape
I’ll look away as I lock away
Everything I have
Ever known;
/
I will call the bleak house my home,
Sit and sit on the steps outside,
Staring vacantly out at things
Without knowing their names
Or mine,
/
My memories
/
Gone
Those who have grown very old and now suffer the lost of memory perhaps feel these feelings.
Thank you for reading, as always!
Don’t know why I suddenly wrote about memory, to be honest. Perhaps, I worry about losing mine.
Memories explain, justify, connect; they make a life into a story. How terrible it must be to have had a story – good, bad, or ugly – and not to know what it was.
The loves I have outgrown
and yet they were so completely consuming and cherished at the time
Absolutely! They were the only ones; they were ‘forever’.
In this sense, time is like space, like distance: the farther away one moves from a feeling/event/object, the smaller it appears. Although, one might remember how important or even all-consuming something was in its moment, it won’t be forgotten how small time and distance made it look, when the moment was gone.