I came here to promote my book, and yes, I intend to do that. As I piddled around my page, changing photos and rearranging widgets, I remembered what was more important. Like I said, I will promote my book here, probably within the text as a link or something, but I want to talk about something else while I promote my book.
In alien situations, I have a hard time understanding why pain cannot be healed and forgotten. There is an apology, a forgiveness and yes, I do forgive…always. But is forgiveness the same as forgetting?
I wrote my story, not to remember but to put away the demon which would not leave me alone. I was desperate, night after night dancing with a cloaked mythical beast at the edge of the forest. This is not an analogy, this is literal. You’d have to know me and know me well to believe me. But that’s okay, you get it. I didn’t forget and that was years ago. I still have the others, flimsily controlled by narcotics. They are like knives in my juggling act, and I’ve gotten pretty good, by the way. 🙂 But about that book then, right.
If I am to promote something of sub-par writing content, then I should, rather, discuss the content instead. Better yet, I will analyze the effects that my past has had upon my writing abilities, my mental well-being and my social fears-of that there are many. So where am I? I seem lost, and yet still, I cannot forget. I forgave the paedafile bastard. He is alive, isn’t he? Well, you wouldn’t know that, now would you?
Speaking of death…I linger in a cryptic vault of sorts, a place where words winde like vines(what I used to say about Shakespeare, as a matter of fact). My words cannot be simplified, for if they were forced into a simplistic shell, then they would lose force and impact. Do you understand? No? Well, continue reading, my friends. I linger, dwell, abide and hybernate in cryptic silence then pushed into long bouts of babbling when the pressure is too much. It’s the pressure of always feeling wounded and bleeding. You see, in my spiritual beliefs, the creator made a plan, a list and a timetable of what was supposed to occur, and the schedule was stolen and burned. It was burned because it cannot be pieced back together as it should have been. It was burned.
It’s okay, keep following me. All will be clear as mud soon enough. You know how burned things make transformations physically and chemically, yeah. In cases of trauma, listen to me, I’m not so cryptic and it scares me! In cases of trauma, as I was saying, the fabric of our being is burned to ashes. This means, as with a blown-out house(like the ones in Detroit Michigan or Chicago…mind you, any large city for that matter), the insides no longer exist. It doesn’t take a day or a few weeks to rebuild the inner sanctum, in these cases. It takes months, even years. For some, the shells are abandoned or destroyed. Now, I believe that is as far into the literal side of writing I wish to do here.
So, instead of promoting my book with the regular, ‘buy this or buy that’ mumbo jumbo, I want to reach a withered hand, growing from the ashes of the severnties, to reach into the cosmos, the fields, the seas and the lands of the world to say nothing.
Because you know as well as I do, that nothing can rebuild that which was burned away…not entirely. Underneath the new wallpaper, the crisp floors and bright window sills are black places, charred and bitter vegetation which will always remember.
As social movements, protests and devastations beg us to never forget, we remain quiet. There is a silence, not sitting on the fence, by the wayside or in the corner with indifference.
Because as no words can cover, neither can they release.
A child I was, a child I am and a child I will forever be…burned frozen and forever.
How can I forget?
And I understand why you must remember as well….Oh, here’s that link.