Post by BadInfluence on Apr 4, 2014 4:30:14 GMT 9.5
Everything below is my own work from my own imagination. Any use of materials or trying to pass my writing off as your own is illegal.
My first memory isn’t even a memory at all, I can’t be sure of the solidity of the world around me at that time. Whether or not it was ever real or just broken figments of a mind that couldn’t take the reality of the world around me, I will never know. There is no road map to life, no guide on how to figure out just what’s real and what’s not inside my head in this place I call remembrance. I can only take this reality in moments, in stages, ever wondering when that curtain will drop and the next scene starts. How does one look through their mind and all that is there and say, ah, this is real, and that is a dream? Did Alice ever wonder about her own sanity as she dove down that Rabbit Hole into Wonderland, or did she simply take it as a figment of her imagination, no matter how real it seemed? Oh, how to have the mind of a child which accepts the unacceptable, and believes in the unbelievable. A child can be thrown into the world of fantasy and never once question that it was simply a normal thing to occur.
As an Adult… Well, it’s a bit harder than that….
You see, I can’t really say which is a dream or a reality in my life anymore. I can’t begin to draw a bead on my past, or find a way to prove any of it ever happened, let alone that such a place existed. After all, how insane does it sound to someone when I say, ‘For several years, I lived in a land of Fantasy, a world apart from this place where I now reside so firmly in what is supposed to be reality.’ Is it any wonder I sit here in my padded cell, with Doctors in those Pristine white coats and latex gloves always poking and prodding at me like some rare, unknown species? I hate the smell of them, so overly medicated, so sterile, so impersonal. They tell me it was all in my head, that none of it was ever possible and that I am having what they call, a psychotic break. They insist with the right pills and drugs, with the right therapists and councilors, I’ll come back to a mental stage they deem…acceptable. Then they will go on and pat each others backs, saying what a good job they did, how they helped this poor mentally unhinged woman become a functioning member of society.
But I am not Broken… I am not Unhinged… I am not Insane…
It would be so much easier if I was. It would be such a kinder fate if I could say that none of it ever happened, that it was all a fantasy created in my head because of something that happened in my reality that I couldn’t come to grips with. As if it were something so simple, so transitory that I could just… wipe the slate clean like so much chalk on a blackboard. Life would be so much easier if I could. The thing about all this though is that they talk so convincingly, with such facts that I wonder if perhaps, in some way, they might be right. All the scars I got in that world that doesn’t exist, they could all be explained by something much more mundane, my mind putting a fantastic twist on ordinary occurrences. Then again, with people telling you things every day like that, anyone would begin to question their own mind, their memories, their own sanity. Words were slippery and slick, and they got worse the more intelligent the speaker, harder to pin down and examine for the truth in them.
I admit that I am afraid, I am afraid that I will loose my memory of that place, to begin to believe and they want me to, that it doesn’t exist anywhere outside of my head… I’m afraid I’ll forget what happened there, all the things I saw, that I learned from a world that was so beautiful it could never exist here… Most of all though, so much worse than anything that could ever happen to me… I am so very, very afraid that I will forget Him…
Isn’t that what all this is about though? The main reason I am trying to hold onto my memories, the thing that makes me fight back and push against their attempts to prove to me it was never real… I don’t want to loose him. I don’t want to forget the way he looked, the smell of him, the sound of his voice… I weep at the thought that I might be made to forget the way his grey eyes remind me of a summer storm just waiting to shower the world in it’s life and fury like some all powerful God. I tremble thinking that I will loose his smile, that the details of it will become blurred, lost, forgotten in my head under the constant onslaught of these beasts who call themselves healers of the human mind.
Ace…
Those three little letters still hold a power over me, like a curse or perhaps my only saving grace. Ace, My Savior… Ace, My Lover… Ace, My own Personal Hell… Ace, My Only Prayer and Promise of Paradise… My best friend and my worst enemy, my perfect love and yet the man who drug me through all levels of Dante’s inferno without so much as a by your leave. Ace, the man who was my heaven and my own personal prayer of salvation, the one who held my heart in such strong, capable hands… I love him… I love him still, despite all that had happened between us, all that is happening to me now, and all that may come to pass. He is the melody of my heart, the music to my soul, the tempo which my whole life has taken it’s staid beat to since the moment he saluted me with that glass of whiskey…
Oh how I wish I could hate him… I wish I could rage at him like a fury, to use that catalyst of anger to cauterize the wound his leaving left on my soul. If I could just banish him from my mind, to blot him out like words on a page after the ink has spilled, never to be read again… If I could despise him, it might stop it from hurting as much as it does, perhaps ease the pain to where it isn’t a constant onslaught of agony with each beat of my heart. How can one say a heart is broken when each time it pulses the agony is so fresh it makes you want to scream? A broken heart would be preferable, the shattered, jagged pieces might slice at me to handle them but at least they would remain stationary, useless… This was so much worse than a broken heart, those can be mended with enough glue and tape after all… This was not something that could be so easily repaired… There isn’t just a hole in my heart, no fracture lines to cause instability, no missing pieces that someone might one day fill in with their love… No, nothing quite so neat and easy as that… A part of my heart isn’t just broken, it was missing entirely. I feel it every single day, the pain of that vanished part of my life. Like am amputee, I can still feel the ghost of it there, the phantom limb that twinges with pain and sensation though it is no longer there. That part of me is missing, gone, left behind in the world where Ace is…
Ace…
I want to say it was his fault, everything that has happened to me, but that would be a lie and that is something I could never tolerate. I hate lies just as much as I hate liars, and I strive every day to never be one. Perhaps that’s why through all this time I can honestly say that this had to be real, my past and my present. I can’t stand to lie, so how could I create a world like the one I lived in and insist it were real if it wasn’t? Then again, I can’t say it is something that is easily believed, not even remotely so. Perhaps that is why I am going to tell you my story, why I am committed to writing this all down on paper, to mark my memory on this delicate material so easily torn and crumpled. I need someone else to remember this for me, because I don’t know how much longer I can hold onto it myself. The Doctors are nothing if not thorough here, and with every passing day a bit more of my confidence, my surety erodes a little more. I’m afraid I will loose it all, every moment of it and be deemed cured for the loss. You will have to hold onto it for me, dear reader, to keep it safe with you… One day I might meet you and this will be all I have to remember him by, to recall everything about him and our life together…
Please Guard my Memories, for though I do not know you, nor do you owe me any particular loyalty or allegiance, you are still all I have left in this world…
You are the Guardian of my Mechanical Magic…
My first memory isn’t even a memory at all, I can’t be sure of the solidity of the world around me at that time. Whether or not it was ever real or just broken figments of a mind that couldn’t take the reality of the world around me, I will never know. There is no road map to life, no guide on how to figure out just what’s real and what’s not inside my head in this place I call remembrance. I can only take this reality in moments, in stages, ever wondering when that curtain will drop and the next scene starts. How does one look through their mind and all that is there and say, ah, this is real, and that is a dream? Did Alice ever wonder about her own sanity as she dove down that Rabbit Hole into Wonderland, or did she simply take it as a figment of her imagination, no matter how real it seemed? Oh, how to have the mind of a child which accepts the unacceptable, and believes in the unbelievable. A child can be thrown into the world of fantasy and never once question that it was simply a normal thing to occur.
As an Adult… Well, it’s a bit harder than that….
You see, I can’t really say which is a dream or a reality in my life anymore. I can’t begin to draw a bead on my past, or find a way to prove any of it ever happened, let alone that such a place existed. After all, how insane does it sound to someone when I say, ‘For several years, I lived in a land of Fantasy, a world apart from this place where I now reside so firmly in what is supposed to be reality.’ Is it any wonder I sit here in my padded cell, with Doctors in those Pristine white coats and latex gloves always poking and prodding at me like some rare, unknown species? I hate the smell of them, so overly medicated, so sterile, so impersonal. They tell me it was all in my head, that none of it was ever possible and that I am having what they call, a psychotic break. They insist with the right pills and drugs, with the right therapists and councilors, I’ll come back to a mental stage they deem…acceptable. Then they will go on and pat each others backs, saying what a good job they did, how they helped this poor mentally unhinged woman become a functioning member of society.
But I am not Broken… I am not Unhinged… I am not Insane…
It would be so much easier if I was. It would be such a kinder fate if I could say that none of it ever happened, that it was all a fantasy created in my head because of something that happened in my reality that I couldn’t come to grips with. As if it were something so simple, so transitory that I could just… wipe the slate clean like so much chalk on a blackboard. Life would be so much easier if I could. The thing about all this though is that they talk so convincingly, with such facts that I wonder if perhaps, in some way, they might be right. All the scars I got in that world that doesn’t exist, they could all be explained by something much more mundane, my mind putting a fantastic twist on ordinary occurrences. Then again, with people telling you things every day like that, anyone would begin to question their own mind, their memories, their own sanity. Words were slippery and slick, and they got worse the more intelligent the speaker, harder to pin down and examine for the truth in them.
I admit that I am afraid, I am afraid that I will loose my memory of that place, to begin to believe and they want me to, that it doesn’t exist anywhere outside of my head… I’m afraid I’ll forget what happened there, all the things I saw, that I learned from a world that was so beautiful it could never exist here… Most of all though, so much worse than anything that could ever happen to me… I am so very, very afraid that I will forget Him…
Isn’t that what all this is about though? The main reason I am trying to hold onto my memories, the thing that makes me fight back and push against their attempts to prove to me it was never real… I don’t want to loose him. I don’t want to forget the way he looked, the smell of him, the sound of his voice… I weep at the thought that I might be made to forget the way his grey eyes remind me of a summer storm just waiting to shower the world in it’s life and fury like some all powerful God. I tremble thinking that I will loose his smile, that the details of it will become blurred, lost, forgotten in my head under the constant onslaught of these beasts who call themselves healers of the human mind.
Ace…
Those three little letters still hold a power over me, like a curse or perhaps my only saving grace. Ace, My Savior… Ace, My Lover… Ace, My own Personal Hell… Ace, My Only Prayer and Promise of Paradise… My best friend and my worst enemy, my perfect love and yet the man who drug me through all levels of Dante’s inferno without so much as a by your leave. Ace, the man who was my heaven and my own personal prayer of salvation, the one who held my heart in such strong, capable hands… I love him… I love him still, despite all that had happened between us, all that is happening to me now, and all that may come to pass. He is the melody of my heart, the music to my soul, the tempo which my whole life has taken it’s staid beat to since the moment he saluted me with that glass of whiskey…
Oh how I wish I could hate him… I wish I could rage at him like a fury, to use that catalyst of anger to cauterize the wound his leaving left on my soul. If I could just banish him from my mind, to blot him out like words on a page after the ink has spilled, never to be read again… If I could despise him, it might stop it from hurting as much as it does, perhaps ease the pain to where it isn’t a constant onslaught of agony with each beat of my heart. How can one say a heart is broken when each time it pulses the agony is so fresh it makes you want to scream? A broken heart would be preferable, the shattered, jagged pieces might slice at me to handle them but at least they would remain stationary, useless… This was so much worse than a broken heart, those can be mended with enough glue and tape after all… This was not something that could be so easily repaired… There isn’t just a hole in my heart, no fracture lines to cause instability, no missing pieces that someone might one day fill in with their love… No, nothing quite so neat and easy as that… A part of my heart isn’t just broken, it was missing entirely. I feel it every single day, the pain of that vanished part of my life. Like am amputee, I can still feel the ghost of it there, the phantom limb that twinges with pain and sensation though it is no longer there. That part of me is missing, gone, left behind in the world where Ace is…
Ace…
I want to say it was his fault, everything that has happened to me, but that would be a lie and that is something I could never tolerate. I hate lies just as much as I hate liars, and I strive every day to never be one. Perhaps that’s why through all this time I can honestly say that this had to be real, my past and my present. I can’t stand to lie, so how could I create a world like the one I lived in and insist it were real if it wasn’t? Then again, I can’t say it is something that is easily believed, not even remotely so. Perhaps that is why I am going to tell you my story, why I am committed to writing this all down on paper, to mark my memory on this delicate material so easily torn and crumpled. I need someone else to remember this for me, because I don’t know how much longer I can hold onto it myself. The Doctors are nothing if not thorough here, and with every passing day a bit more of my confidence, my surety erodes a little more. I’m afraid I will loose it all, every moment of it and be deemed cured for the loss. You will have to hold onto it for me, dear reader, to keep it safe with you… One day I might meet you and this will be all I have to remember him by, to recall everything about him and our life together…
Please Guard my Memories, for though I do not know you, nor do you owe me any particular loyalty or allegiance, you are still all I have left in this world…
You are the Guardian of my Mechanical Magic…