Half a dozen memories

I don’t know. I don’t remember. Actually I do. Why did I?. Madness right? Actually worse. I pray the lord to make me a mad man so I can blabber in peace with no conscience to tangle me. I jump between tasks in the day and fidget with old memories at night. Memories that have essence and image. Sometimes Both, sometimes none. The texture of grandfather’s old rexine wrapped seat, covering the squeaky old wooden frame and the coconut fibres poping out from its holes caused by wear and tear of rusted nails that held the wooden structure. The soft mud covered floor on which I used to stick toothpicks and matchsticks and press them down so as to check how deep can they go. Many vague memories are on the edge of been forgotten. Some of them are lost forever. How would I know? That there existed a memory and now it doesn’t. An old pepsi fridge that had 2 compartments or three, the face of that matador conductor that let go of my fare, the color of my friends hair, the name of the colony I was born into. All filling up empty timestamps of my memory, whether first hand or borrowed, factual or manipulated, dream or reality Memories are scary for me. They show my mortality and helplessness a mirror. I feel pity for my brain that it has to deal with it. For all it goes through. The eyes and ears see the present but the mind has to face the past as well. Pity my memories. I yawn. I’ll forget a thing tomorrow. An old memory. Not relevant anymore. I’ll forget that I ever wrote this. You’ll forget that you read this. What have you read so far. Nonsense. I’ll forget you. So will you. Or shall you keep me in your memory? A corner desk in the room of your thoughts of which I shall be lingering on like a chewing gum pasted hurriedly. Don’t do that. That’s bad. Be kind to both of us. Forget. We sleep.