Memories are made of clouds, i sometimes think. Their
gravity, content, the moisture, the light, the dark dampness and the way they
pass through and through over the skies of my little worldly brain, makes me
think they are clouds or cloud like – enormous in size and content, but made of
something that is soft and light as nothing. There is a colossal psychology
laboratory in my head and I think that’s where all of these clouds reside, regenerate, de-generate. Thoughts too, then, are lightening and thunder that
accompany these memories.
All of this, combined, rains on my light being; drenching me
and I, like a sheet of paper – become soggy, unusable and devoid of any
crispness. And if an unsuspecting being, under mindful consideration, tries to
pick me up, all it does is tear my fabric up and destroy the last thing I hold
dear, my completeness.
These clouds are the end of me.
