written on a whim .

                        Slide. Crash. Burn.

        

                  Some times the moments relives themselves. Without my consent. Without my permission. They just begin. I can be some where, minding my own, when I’ll get pulled into these memories and the next thing I know, I don’t even know where I am. The worst thing though, is that they’re not even my memories to relive.

         A man stands, his face contorted in blood.

         Flash.

         The tiny fists of a baby reach towards me.

         Flash.

         Laughter rings through my ears, a gun is held in my hands.

         And I know they’re real. If anything, by the sheer tidal wave of emotions that engulf me, drowning me in their cruel grasps. Yet, I know they’re not mine. For never have I felt such hatred as these memories bring forth in me.

         It’s become easier to think of them as creatures in themselves, entities that force themselves inside of me. If I imagine them like so, then the guilt can’t devour me as it used to, whenever the crying would stop and the face would go blank.

         The worse part? The fear that these things had actually occurred, that I had driven them from my mind myself and out of sheer terror had convinced myself of my genuine innocence to these happenings. Logic is never my friend when I’m scared like so. No, during these times of fright I can never remind myself the impossibility of them being real - as I could recall every moment that I was awake - the very thought of my guiltlessness extracted from my brain.

         The doctors say I’m not crazy, that I’m in here to protect myself.

         If I’m not crazy then why do I have these memories?

         If I’m not crazy then why is there padding on my walls?

         If I’m not crazy then I must be sane.

         But I’m not sane. No. I’m the farthest thing from it.

         You see, some times the moments relive themselves. Without my consent. Without my permission. They just begin. I can be some where, minding my own, when I’ll get pulled into these memories and the next thing I know, I don’t even know where I am. The worst thing though, is that the memory that is my own is the red sink as I washed the blood from my hands.