Half the night I lay in bed tossing and turning, as if some important event will determine my fate on the morrow. But no such thing will occur. I'm replaying memories that are, in my mind, the only way I can remember them. Oh, how I wish I could remember more, so mysteries would come to light in this puzzle of a life.
My wife is sleeping soundly beside me, dreaming things of no consequence, whistling through her nose what stray thoughts betray her. And stray are mine as well, for I've been unable to recover what memories I seek most; those that will help me understand why things happened the way they did. Sometimes there are things you can remember from certain ages, but you were too young at the time to remember them correctly in the present. The missing pieces got lost in the ruins of childhood, under those remnants of joy you erected before you were forced into adulthood prematurely. Those raiders of youth that robbed you of liberty and sacrificed you to the ageless broke them bit by bit; those meant to guide you took you for a pawn, made you a kind of prodigal wizard, cast you to the lions before you even knew what was happening.
The sheets are getting abused by the constant rolling, the eternal recycling of memories. It's like I'm caught in a feedback loop, circling through the scenes, eeking my way through a timeline, that I may find others buried in the rubble. Aimlessly searching for lost memories, the past is like a helping hand you can never quite reach.
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