The Truth

From the time that I was thirteen, until now, at twenty-three; I’ve been unable to remember my childhood home as it was, but instead as it has come to me in dreams. For the most part, I remember my home growing stilts to escape the monsoon that came thrashing over Chatterton Street night after night. And when I try to tour my home by recollection, I find worn yellow walls and soot on rotting tile that never existed in the first place. An unrecognizable building on stilts so high that I can’t even reach the front door anymore. I begin to wonder if I was ever a child at all, or if I just appeared here, as if today.

For these reasons, I stopped traveling within my mind and at about eighteen I started losing my memories, and at twenty-two, well I grew into somebody completely new. And if you were to deem this as impossible, I would inform you that this is entirely plausible and that our cells regenerate every seven years – an idea that I have learned to relish and revere:

I am not who I was.

At twenty-one, I thought that I was in love, to a boy I believed I loved more than I loved me – and when our course ran dry, I failed to understand why, and the importance of self-regard, then lost my mind trying to fathom. Alas once the storm cleared and my heart was on the mend, I learned the important lesson of creating your own heavens, your own hells. Of breathing for yourself and not breathing for someone else.

In hindsight, every undesirable situation I have been in has only been created by my own two hands. I am a sole woman because I have inadvertently asked to be, with every guard I put up and every dormant defense waiting to be summoned. Curiosity enraptures my brain, when did I miss the construction of these barricades? Are they beneficial or are they detrimental?

Not that I have any memories, but if I did, I would be almost certain that no hurt or fault falls at the feet of any person other than myself. Am I the architect of my own alienation?

I have loved only once in my life and that is to a girl living in Alaska, in which I have learned to regard this love differently, only recall on it occasionally as not all loves are meant to flourish, but merely sit – idling to remind you that it at least exists.

I am not sure why I have chosen to share all of these personal things, to map out my brain in cluttered writings and fictional sightings, maybe it is a plot or a plan, or a measurement of growth. Maybe it is an apology to the girl in Alaska of whom noticed my apathy, or to the patient boy of whom I placed on a pedestal and called God, or to the family that I left behind, or to the beings that try but are never able to reach into me,

But I don’t think that it is, I think it is merely an attempt at clarity, an acknowledgment of the ruins at my feet, the differentiating of the nights from the lonely, as I so often confuse them.

An assortment of important honesties simply sitting on a page.

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