Memory: pt. 1

Sometimes we are called by something no higher then ourselves to recite. We keenly feel our flaws and failures. We cry out that we haven't the ability to sing, play music, or other wise fulfill the command. As that calling to us becomes more potent and present in our lives, a pressure builds within us and we soon find ourselves squirming with the pain of hindering expression. It's like the foulest of gas pains, but in an emotional sense, I suppose. Time and again, I find myself urged to recite my own memories. I resist the urges with a frantic terror that probably baffles many. Like a fool, I decry the pains of refusing this creative urge and I often go so far as to state that they are something different. A creative block and depression are my personal forms of that emotional set of "gas" pains.

Like bad gas, when the pressure hits a certain point, it will release explosively. Some times, it's a burst of tears and wailing. Other times, it is in a particularly vivid series of paintings spawned by the raging emotions within me. For a long time, I regulated writing to be my expressive focus for things aside from this emotional burning within me. It was eased from time to time with my dabblings in poetry, but I maintained a wall between prose and poetry for my expression of this anguish with in me. Now, I realize that continuing to do so is only going to serve to deepen the pains within me and this blockage will extend for so long that I'll be unable to fulfill the dreams I have as an author.

So, I present this humble expression. This is not going to be pretty. There are many ugly and horrific things lurking behind my life that I am going to give voice to in the desperate hope that it breaks the death's hold they have on me. Terror has long been a constant companion. It's not the warm fuzzy blanket companion, as some like to present it, a comforting habit that serves some buried psychological pleasure center that's been wired wrong. It's that monkey on my back, strangling me slowly every day. I didn't even need to go to the wastes that Sinbad visited or go through the effort of attempting to steal a Roc's egg to acquire this hellish little creature. I was simply thrust into a world that gifted it to me. I'm perhaps possessed of a morbid bit of luck, but I honestly don't know. Even as I have terror as my constant companion, I also have love with me at all times. Perhaps it resembles something less akin to the luck of the infamous Murphy and is more like Pandora's box. I'll let you decide as I present my tale.