Random

I couldn't help noticing some similarities with this courses subjects and some writing in
a story I have just pulled out and started working on again, so I thought I'd put couple part is here:


One thing that makes me very sad is lost memories, or damaged memories. Some of mine I only see in little clips, and some of them I know are there, but still I won’t be able to bring them into my mind. It is like they are swimming around in a place where time stands still, teasing me with their scent and their touch. I remember the feeling of the memory, but not the memory itself. It’s like having a word at the tip of your tongue—so vivid you can taste it, and still it swims away. These are memories that are dying from my mind, and they hold the most pain with me out of all stages of memory and memories and thought. Perhaps because they leave their fragrance as they leave my mind, and their scent increases with distance. But all I have is scent. I cannot see the memories any more, but I can smell how sweet they are as they swim away. And that is like seeing bits and pieces of your life fade away from you, slowly and painfully—figures and familiar forms in picture albums erased entirely, without a trace. So that I can only fill in the blanks with stories, because I don’t like to leave things as blank. Empty memories terrify me. When I think about that empty space in my head suddenly I am standing on the edge of an incomprehensible cliff, and the distance of the ground sucks my breath away from me. Quickly I think of a strong, bold memory that is fresh in my brain as something to cling to and not be sucked down into quicksand. Because without my memories, there is nothing at all. Only this. You see than why my past has become my present, and also my future. My future is just a continuation of my past.

and a little later:


The sound echoed around the mountains many, many times. And with each time it grew more and more still, until the whole valley, even the mountains, were as still as death. And the most horrible thing was after the smoke cleared—it seemed a fog of smoke hung around me—after I could see, I saw only the horse running spooked across the beautiful golden plains while the rider hung dead from his saddle. The sky felt like was rushing down on me, so I ran away from it, away from the frightened horse and the dead man, away from the panic which threatened to grip my mind and my lungs and my whole body and squeeze like a vice grip until I popped. I pounded over the uneven ground as the grass grabbed my thighs and hissed like angry snakes, tripping and falling and clawing to get up. I wanted to leave it all behind me, everything including my soul, so that I would become a new person with a new life by the time I stopped. I wanted to leave my own self coughing and sputtering in the dust. So I ran harder and faster and more frantic than I have ever ran before, and I think than I will ever run again. The trumpets were sounding around the great walls which held my reality, my sanity in place and soon they would crumble like Jericho, as would the fragile mountains of this world. I ran and everything was fake to me, all made up including myself and the very life I lived. Underneath it all I waited for the ground to rip away like paper beneath my feet, and I would realize then that it had all been an illusion, tumbling into dark space. My feet pounded the earth, and pounded the earth and my bones were jolted so that I thought I would crumble on a step seven times too hard, shatter into a million pieces and blow away in the wind, on away the wind then would carry me, to heaven I hope. Or I would be caught in the sticky nectar of flowers or spider’s webs and just watch nature carry on without me…