Like shadows they follow

Sliding past bare bushes

Over broken concrete

They are born inside

Tears and laughter

And given life inside

Pain and joy

Shape shifting, floating

Like a buoy in water

Bobbing rhythmically

Over waves of experience

They live in the silence

Inside the dark quiet

They hibernate paralyzed

Morphing for years

Feeding on those small

Twitchy feelings we foster

In our gut, in our heart

Until we recollect them

And like a bouquet

Of helium balloons

We let them loose

To float away

Or we chain them

And torture them

And turn them all

Into the monsters

We need them to be

To explain the pain

We don’t understand

To keep the pain

That makes us… us

Experiences are at the most accurate the first time around. After that… the moments we remember are puzzles with missing pieces. With extra pieces. With pieces we shape and reshape with emotion, with temperament, with motives, with fog, with unease and pain, with joy and contentedness.

Memories have their own life in a world wholly owned by us. Each of us artists living inside our own genre. Our own stories that nobody else has a right to.

Accurate or not they are a part of the experiences we have yet to have.