© 2017 City of Broken Dreams
It used to be that when my eyes would crack open at the insistence of the harsh morning light, my arm would instinctively shoot out across to the other side of the mattress like a striking cobra. My fingers would dance and crawl on the surface of the fitted bed sheet: a handicapped, five-digit tarantula, yearning and searching for something sentimental and warm-blooded to pounce and feed upon. But of course, there was never anything there. Nothing but a shadow, a cool puddle of darkness, a manifestation of the absence of warmth and light, right there on the bed beside me.
I used to try to fill the icy void with something, anything—something to touch, something to hold onto. But the Law of Conservation of Mass dictates that matter cannot be created or destroyed; thus, there was never anything tangible that I could create—to reach for, to grasp a hold of. And so I relied upon the reconstruction of memory: carefully crafted, yet fundamentally flawed memories specifically designed to validate and legitimize the longing and melancholy that plagued me like a psychic pestilence.
I believed in the memories, they were my last salvation. They were so very beautiful to behold as they violently and vividly splattered against the blank mental canvas of my broken mind, playing on repeat like on one long, continuous tragic film loop. Allowing the persistence of memory was like getting to relive the memories all over again.