Memories, so precious yet so fragile

Reads: 51  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
As I wrote this, I wondered is it really fiction?

Submitted: April 12, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 12, 2013




The memories that impacted my life the most, those that left my heart and mind stained... Sometimes I wonder if they truly are my memories.  When I think back to these things, these life changing occurrences, I see myself in the third person going through such memories and the gaps in time consume the story of which my life is born.  Sometimes I wonder, while lying in bed and gazing at the narrow ceiling, are these memories or are they another of my stories?  The fantasies I write on paper... Is my life fiction as well?  The lies I so often tell... Have I become consumed by them?  Those memories, the people dearest to me... Their faces have become nothing more that blurs that smile at me, their defining aspects no longer defining.  Why, when I think back to those whom I miss so much, do I not become sad but merely void of emotion?  I see the home of which I lost all that was dear to me, and yet I feel nothing, as though I had never seen that place.  It windows of which I so dreamily looked out, now so unfamiliar.  Is this really me, or a shadow of another life?  Fragments of what I thought was me are falling away like a dying roses’ petals.  Slowly, they drift away in the light breeze, unrecognizable to my eye any longer. What is going to become of me when my memories are no longer there?  When all have left me, will I be void like the emotions I once both relished and regretted?  Like a crack in glass, it gradually widens until it shatters; this is me, this is what I am.  Transparent, soon I will be the fragment remains of transparent glass, with the vague reflection of my surroundings.  Life, the unattainable, forever out of my grasp; all that remains are my memories, and even now they slip away.  What am I?  Another of those tales that I spun with such vigor, have I become fiction?  Why, when I’m all alone, I can’t think back to happy days.  I can’t look back upon your face, which I cherished so dearly.  Why, am I all alone again?




Why can’t I go back to the memories that so temptingly slip out of my grasp?

© Copyright 2018 kiaramaz. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by kiaramaz

Dancing With the Dead

Short Story / Fantasy

Dead by Dawn

Short Story / Other

Moonlit Snowflake

Short Story / Action and Adventure

Popular Tags