SCI-FI

GENERAL FICTION

SHORT STORIES

POETRY

HORROR

HOME

I stare at the person before me, the reflection returns my gaze, and the mirror fogs up again I wipe away the mist trying to reveal the soul inside the facade. Everything is fractured, the image is whole, complete, but the story, the being, the truth is harder to find. How do you build blocks, buildings of the self, memories, when the ground upon which the lay is barren. I can't recall vast sections of my childhood, huge chapters are empty and no amount of dredging the waters has released them allowed them to flow.

It's dark here in this wasteland of time faded, there's no one but me and the echoes of yesterday that blow down the ravines trying to topple me over and drag me down to their abyss.

How do I tell you about myself, when I don't know what there is to me. Do I make up a past like all the others do, lie to fill the void of the un-recalled. People do that all the time invent a life that is not their own, living the one they choose too be real. They dance madly around in the masquerade to the point where they can no longer tell truth from lie. I don't want to be like them, but I don't want to be me.

Can you see the scars?

I look into my eyes and I can see it, the aching sorrow, the little girl wounded beyond belief. She lurks there, hiding in me, an echo that's become etched into my soulbut the narrative is fragmented. My memories though are lucid at least the ones I can recall. They never change, time does not alter them, true they remain. Harsh and heavy they tread.

When I was 18 I looked in the mirror and tried to see who I was, what made me tick. I'm 30 now and I no longer search the recess of I for answers I know I can't find. I have discovered many truths along the way the most important is to trust yourself, when the time is right the ghosts will reveal themselves.

My memories of childhood are blown apart, the carcasses lay strewn about my mind, out of order with no synchronisation, no chronologicaly sound points, but they are my memories.

Where are the missing pieces?

Can you recover what was stolen?

Is there a way to happiness or is it always just out of reach?

When dreams invade and blur reason the heart falls into decay. The fragments of yesterdays taunt me And I fall into and out of sanity.

I'm trapped in a web of pain

Frozen am I,

with doubts that I'll survive.

There was a time in my life when I knew who I was. I was succinct, whole, functional, coping. Or at least I believed I was. I lived in lies, tried to convince myself of the inconvincible, that the ache that I felt at the core of my being would fade, disappear if I just ignored it. Now I know the menacing, how pain lingers, swells and finally encompasses you. Faded into the black. Splintered, fractured, serrated edges that fell apart into the chasm that is my pain.

The past is never past it is always a part of you. You breathe it in and out it's a living element, it's who you are now, who you've been and a factor in who'll you'll be.

I felt it happen, the day that I slipped, the numbness that filled me, the terror that followed, the voices the revelled in their release. I slipped into myself and out the other side, pieces, remnants, splinters, slices, fell out of place and my mind shifted into what I had always feared, finding myself.