Marijuana on the breath
Alcohol on the tongue
A means to an orgasmic end
And what of Dissociation?
Well, he’s the one that fucked both of us
Memories are sobering. Even though I was scared, there was one I didn’t numb for. I’m not angry, sad, or bewildered by my choices, but the pain leaves and returns so often, that I’m not sure if choices ever mattered. New neural pathways lead me to the same forks and spoons in the road, and even though a new direction is chosen, the same dirt fills my memory bowl. I am fat with memories, starving for amnesia, and to the world look anything but hungry. I shop for words, voices, and comfort, but all are too expensive to own when shopping in stores of illusion. I’m a renter of obscurity, owned by the Bank of Unimportance, and life is a fee over-interested and under-assessed.
Memories are intoxicating. There was one that taught me it was okay to feel. I needed to feel his love, so I could return to myself and feel the pain. Paths are not chosen so much as assigned, and if accepted in humble disposition, they will lead us to profound knowledge, and place us in positions of intense self-catechism. When allowed, this can be the sobering that leads to hope, to become a precipice faced without fear each day, and leapt from with all ones heart, in the knowing that what catches our breath is more important than what catches our fall.
Memories are a choice, Dreams a plan, and Love a promise.