Perpetual Rinse Cycle

Memory.  What’s that?

I don’t remember tons from my childhood aside from themes and colors and some very specific instances.  My organization of the past is sporadic.  Mostly empty with a hint of melancholic musings.

My short term memory is laughable.  I talk in circles and say the same thing maybe 2 minutes after I originally said it like I had a Eureka! moment in between breaths.

Too bad I already said that.

The concerned look of the other person.  The slight frustration they feel during  the conversation is nothing compared to the internal lunacy lunging at my throat.  Clawing and sinking it’s teeth into my train of thought.

The unseen terror triumphs.  I apologize, make a self-deprecating joke.  The other party seems none the wiser.  I diffused the bomb, but not forever.  The incessant tick tick tick.  The countdown to an explosion.  The inability to latch onto a single logical sentiment.  Instead, they whiz past on the autonomic autobahn.  I feebly hold on and try to politely remove myself from the situation.

Day in.  Day out.  Slowly succumbing to the serpentine pathways, inanely formed in a permanent press wash cycle of madness.  Spinning round, detergent nowhere to be found.  Stuck in a pattern of square pegs in a round holes.  Wash again.  Maybe this time it will be clean?




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