Memories

Your memory is like flourescent light that blinds me to how everything must change.

Memory is an epic poem, an endless story, the details shifting in place. Hazy light on dim faces, photos turning grey. I need a fulcrum to lift each day now, to elevate need to a burning desire. I remember the pressing need, the longing, the beautiful empty feeling of wanting, of being incomplete. But that was a long time ago. Now nothing matters, and everything - every damned thing - is important. Memories are forever backing up, mixing up, jumbled and unclear. All that I have left to strive for, each event these days, means less and less. And yet every damned thing is so important.