Mnemophobic

I wish there was a way to turn back time and relive those moments in the past that I always remember with a bittersweet feeling, knowing what will come, and regretting those decisions that I made after the perfections I nearly gained.

Uncontrolled flashbacks whiz through my mind, sending butterflies into a wild frenzy in my stomach before it drops through to my feet, snapshots of what I had fading into memories replayed over and over like an old record of your favorite song that you fear forgetting, but know you never will.

The binding intimacy of that memory fills me with emotion to where I am unable to hold back the tears I long to cry each time I think of you, and they spill over like the floodwaters rushing, ever rushing, for no other purpose than to destroy.

And destroy the memories do.


Someone stop the pain.
Someone stop the tears.
Someone stop this backwards progression.
Someone stop time.


Can this be a feeling, ontop of all my other priorities, that I am unable to control?
It distracts me from my schoolwork, my job, my family, my friends, my everything.

Yet I relive that time purposely, every night before I sleep, the perfections so close as to be nearly real again. And my dissapointment at their falsehood brings from me both anger and laments togther, a mixture strong enough to trigger that dreaded and beloved flow from my eyes, the only physical display of my depression cutting through the darkness, sharply turning the full memory into a solitude knife, digging itself into my heart.