Memory is Eternal
by R.T. Allenson
In his spare time he would write them – the memories he had of days gone by, far long they were adrift in his mind and so soon they would be pressed down into oblivion.
But this was his vigil, his purpose. The noise in his head would not cease until he wrote every painful detail on paper, every tear-wrenching word said to him. It burned like fire in his head, made him shiver as the memories thundered and wounded him like scorpion-whips on bare skin.
It was a certain clarity in his being that made him toil through the suffering. It wasn’t that he craved for the pain nor was it because he had no choice. Everyone has a choice, he would remind himself all the time. He placed himself in solemn places and quiet spaces to cry himself to that certainty, to that innocuous clarity that fountained within the depths of his heart. It pained him, of course, it was like fire and thunder and the feel of scorpion-whips on skin; he endured these things because he knew, that even though everyone has a choice, sometimes powerlessness and weakness to go against it was a choice in its own.
These were quiet times and quiet places. The rudimentary calculations he made to ascertain his flawed reasoning fell like snow on warm ground and vanished into nothingness. He wished, somehow, that he could keep reason and memory together. But that was never possible. It never was.
It burned like fire in his head, made him shiver as the memories thundered and wounded him like scorpion-whips on bare skin. It wasn’t that he craved for the pain nor was it because he had no choice. It wasn’t that at all, though the tears were as painful as anything else. It was a certain clarity in his being that made him toil through the suffering. Something that made him stand against the callous and pretentious, the hypocrites and the vengeful.
It isn’t courage that he holds within him.