MEMOIRISHU
by Harper Kingsley
The worst part of being crazy were the moments of lucidity. The moments of looking around and realizing "This is all really happening. You are this person. This is your life."
There’s a pleasantness to disassociation. To being able to tell yourself that you are currently existing in a dream. In a vision. In a moment of some much better life.
But this is all real.
And that’s the cutting edge of sanity.
Or maybe those moments of "sanity" are when you’re craziest of all.
It’s hard to think about. In the complete THISNESS of it all.
You don’t remember your name most of the time. It’s not the name you call yourself in your head. The name that’s printed on some birth certificate far away in the home you barely remembered but wanted so desperately to get back to.
You live in the moment. Make the best of the situation. Don’t make waves.
You smile and you nod, and life is mostly all right. Not anything to dream about, but nothing to feel ways about.
You don’t know where the reference came from, but it felt right. It felt like something you’d heard and briefly been amused by and yet it somehow burrowed its way deep enough into your mind that it was able to pop up when after everything else had been forgot.
A lot of things had been forgot.
A lot of the parts of you have been forgot.
Tenses, twisting and bending, carrying you along in a melody of "That looks sort of right/it must be right"-thinking that at the same time felt like you were an alien standing in a room. As though a thousand-thousand people are all looking at you and shaking their heads, "No."
You have references inside you that you don’t know how they got there. Thoughts left behind by some other life you were desperate to remember while fearing the kind of person you might have been.
The things you know. The terrible (wonderful) destructive things you know that are so perfect for this place. That would change the face of everything, though you don’t know if it would make things better or worse to think and do.
You know so much without knowing where you’d learned any of it. You don’t know if any of it is real, or just nonsense you read somewhere and inexplicably retained when everything (someone) else was purged from you.
TBC…
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~Harper Kingsley
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