Living in Memory

I bumped into a friend from primary school today. Its funny how time flies, (not necessarily when you’re enjoying yourself), but just how time flies.

She had changed, and so had I, but our memories where the same, back to a time when we were so young. A place, a frozen picture, dead, as time had trampled over its smooth strokes, and vibrant colours, trailing a dark ink behind. Smudging the sharply defined edges of the school yard, with its jagged claws. And yet the frame stands in place, strong and sturdy, as my memory does, for it knows what once lay beneath, a beautiful piece now hidden in dust, smudged and stained. Because beautiful things don’t have to be preserved or carved in stone to live forever, they don’t need to be proved to the senses to exist, they exist and live beneath our souls, surviving off a heart beat, living in every breath we take. We just need to make sure our heart beats, and breathes; you never know ... something beautiful could be living off them.


I want to be happy,
Care free and innocent,
How I long to return a child again,
To leave my future behind,
To a time where nothing matters,
And all that happens, exists not in memory

I want to be happy,
How do I find this utter bliss?
A new face? Or to face the truth?
I long to rid of this dark cloud,
Floating over my head,
To live this nightmare no more.

I want to be happy,
Take me back.
Or cry with me.

Moving on,

How does one know when or how to do so?
What is truly buried beneath these words?
The ability to forget? Or to be forgotten?
Letting go, leaving behind what was once so loved?
No, that doesn’t feel, nor sound right,
True and sincere acceptance of fate and approval of it?
Having to accept is never free willed, but inevitably forced.

Thinking I once held the sweetest cup of life between my hands,
How can drinking it now, taste so bitter?
The pain begins with the burn on my lips,
As I feel its poison enrich my veins.

Is it wrong to hold on? To wish, to dream?
Tell me if I should embrace hope, as if it were to change time?
There’s a fine line between wanting, longing and pure blindness
Loosing the will to see beyond, to live beyond the trees of darkness,
Which once were planted deep within, only now show their evil,
How can one think? When all it seems I can do is feel?
Feel the pain of a burning candle, and the life of a new born tear.

Moving on is not a phase nor a time, it’s a journey,
Of remembrance, reflection and realisation of reality,
Life moves on, and it hits as hard as a wall of bricks,
When you become the subject, that all move on from.