Time's Th Thief Of Memory

Wherever you write is supposed t be a little bit of a refuge, a place where you can get away from th world. Th more closed in you are, th more you're forced back on your own imagination. I write whenever i decide t find out what im thinking. It isn't life, but it is a way back.

Memories define who we are. On nights i can't sleep, which is practically every oth night just because im alone, i reminisce. Bad ones do catch up, but not tonight they don't. Tonight i take care of all th beautiful ones, for they can never be relived. Tonight  i hold on t th things i love, th things i am, and th things i never want t lose. And even if i were t be in some prison, th walls of which let none of th sounds of th world come t my senses, i would still have that precious, kingly possession, that treasure house of memories. Can we torture ourselves w happy thoughts? That sweet, hurtful ache your heart develops in response t nostalgia. So beautiful, so surreal you question its ability t be a part of what delineates you. Tonight, my mind supplies me w moments in my life i hold onto so dearly, mimicking a scrapbook wedged w photographs. Pictures smudged by tears, pictures worth a thousand vivid descriptives. It is a book that will forever be in my possession. Posed at th edge of my bed w a digressing mind on a meandering road, i flip through my scrapbook.. 'scrapbook'. Carefully evaluating each page, i back track on a couple of pages before i finally find one that left me smiling and only realising moments later. Bliss. Fuckin' bliss i swear. Was i really there? Is that really a part of me right now? Imagination vs. Reality. I sometimes cope w th problem of differentiating. But reality fo' sure, this one is. I love meeting w that warm feeling inside, that beam my muscles effortlessly manages t pull. Th best part about memories? One good one leads t another and you're guaranteed a smile that will last longer than usual. A beauty that escalates into tears. Not bittersweet no, just sweet. Something as simple as writing can sanctify us yet we all choose or have chosen in a certain time of our lifes' t swear by superficiality.

I miss you. Thank you for adding so many priceless pages into my scrapbook. Thank you for th memories that make me smile at 4 in th morning. You're all around me, in th air i breathe. Cliche. But what isn't cliche when it comes t trying your best t describe how love feels for no words will ever come close t tracing out an emotion so swell, so bountiful. You're my strength and also my weakness, you drive me crazy but im crazy over you. You're always on my mind but i want you t stay there, every single day of forever. Do i sound obsessed?

I woke up w an extreme case of wanderlust today, oh well.