It’s not quite seldom when a dramatic reinvention in my life becomes a happenstance that triggers a built up wave of emotions to crash over me to put in play an irreversible set of motions. That is the sensation of gradually dripping into a protracted afterglow of the dazy, youthful days. Having no regards placed me on the brink of losing so much, yet the manner in which I spent it felt so fulfilling. I find myself shifting my gaze across the pinned pictures on the fawn colored pinboard to unravel towards the scenes stabbed into place with the push pins. Its sereneful silhouette is a reminder of another simpler time and place I once was present in. They subconsciously make me waltz into the rekindled realm to flare out my tinkering roots that expand to every corner of my soul to taint me with the ambiguous sting of nostalgia. The cog of my mind sails relentlessly backwards to anchor to the consolation prize of re-reading the reservoirs of my childhood. The tiniest leak of yearning to return makes its way to the floorboards, making me want to bolt towards the purposeful exquisiteness I now cling to in gratitude with my white knuckle dying grip. Each droplet, leaking through the seams of my crestfallen shut eyes, was soothing. Holding tight to the quiet resentment of growing and forlorning even the most recent events that become pulverized each day.
In the process of opening the shut corridors, I lay confined inside the single haven with plastered ceilings to run deep and deeper still into the faculty of this reminiscing. It’s a moment in which I become diverted from reality, drowning out the time that awaits me. My ears become flooded with the frigid water, even though the phantom echoes trace back to a time frame of being blissfully ignorant to the progressive seasons of life which are beyond clarity. It’s frankly a time in which my state of mind doesn’t centralize itself into attempting to assemble the fractured mosaic of responsibilities for the sake of conformed righteousness. I freely let myself fall headlong into the abyssal plains where I keep count for each and every penny ever tossed in the moment of wishful thinking, or hope that a surreal, spiritual entity would once answer to my calls of paralyzing the clocks ticking. With the numbness hovering over, I can’t help but find an uplifting sensation from the sudden strain that beckons me to plunge into the dusted stories preserved with memories that overflow with an allure that has begun to decay with the new currents of scenic moments that wash over them. As I try to obtain the eyes of the young child, unthinking of the next foreign roads to be pursued, the realization sinks in that perhaps I’m not particularly melancholic of the past, but weary of the unwritten future. This makes me retrace the stepping stones and conduct a post mortem of the fragile, out of reach memories.
The people and objects that have accompanied me through the dreary and the incandescent glimmers have internalized themselves within me. With doing so, it is an agonizing decomposition when you stand right before the now strangely infrequent face. It seems like an intrinsic demise that deflates the watercolor life with not a doubt or apprehension in sight. As I find myself trying to cope with the epiphany of developing new experiences to the best of my ability, I am battered by the magisterial attachment to familiarity. The immaculate realness in the trimmed time shows me the drastic comparisons such as the crevices on people’s faces beginning to be less vigorous, leaving me to implore for more borrowed time for even a miniscule moment of retrieving home again. The trees in the same town have borne witness to everything. Its gnarly roots keep track of the record of years flown away into the delicacy of backlogged dreams and ruts marked on the wet, dreary soil that is now peaceful. It seems as though the moment is palpable, but we can no longer forgo the slipped litany of occasions. Time breaks down the mind and body, but my soul can remain spellbound to the achilles heel and saving grace that makes me romanticize the incompetence of halting what’s beyond my control. I glide through the familiar artifacts now eroding with every crashing year that came as I grew up. Their discardment makes me pine over the moments never to be returned. Their tiniest shimmer is a reflection of the person we would eventually become all too soon. It seemed like regular old living, but the fond gestures are what now burn my sternum as I continue to remember the things I will love for a lifetime all too well. When the clocks between remembrances and reality come to synchronize again, I retrieve from my own beguilement of the possibilities to stop it all. Long story short, the mythical current of snapshots will timelessly sway within me as they blade through the rough waters of the present forevermore.
