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Wounded Memories

~ Anonymous place to let spill my wounded memories

Wounded Memories

Category Archives: Musings

General thoughts and musings about life, death and anything in between

OK

04 Sunday Aug 2019

Posted by woundedmemories in Musings, Prose

≈ 4 Comments

I’m not ok, but I’m ok. This seems to be at odds, but a bit like superposition, both are true.

The fact is I’ll never be ok. This emptiness inside, these nightmares that follow me into the awake, this rage that I hide, but is always there… I’m not ok, and I hate the question. There is no real answer. Any answer it’s a lie or partial one.

But it’s ok. Really it is. That emptiness; it’s always been there, it always will. Those nightmares; sometimes the monster is after me, sometimes I’m the monster – either way, they’re all I know. And that rage; without it, I would have let go, so very long ago.

Don’t ask me, don’t make me lie. But know, even if I lie, I’m telling the truth. I’m not ok, but that’s the only ok I’ve ever known. So believe me when I say, I’m ok.

Cracked and Broken

19 Tuesday Jan 2016

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Death, Life

Decades ago my grandfather bought me a plot in the graveyard among with the rest of the family. It was always so surreal to see my name on a tombstone with my birth date and a dash. It was as if it were just counting down the days.

My sister went to visit my father and grandparents tomb last week and said there was a large crack in my tombstone. None of the other ones near… Just mine.

She said she was going to get it repaired, I told her not to worry. She paused… Then asked why. With my mask on tight I smiled through Skype and said it isn’t worth the money, it’s OK.

Inside my mask, in the thing that dwells inside, I simply thought why not let my sigil in death match my soul in life. Cracked and broken.

Home

10 Thursday Dec 2015

Posted by woundedmemories in Musings

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home, Lost

I was once in a house in a city, continents, even an ocean away, and I felt more at home than home ever did. I know what you’re wondering – what was this city?

And you see, that’s exactly the wrong question. It didn’t matter what house, what city, even what continent away.

No, the question is why home has never once, in all my life, felt like home.

3AM Melancholy

01 Tuesday Dec 2015

Posted by woundedmemories in Musings

≈ 5 Comments

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melancholy

Awake at 3 am, wondering if she’s awake too, aching with thoughts of you. Knowing though, that she’s probably not. She’s sleeping, tangled with someone else. You look over, see a stranger next to you, and wonder what happened in your life, where did it break down this bad, and will it always be this broken.

Maybe there was a single moment, a catalyst that started it all. Or maybe it just eroded, one spec at a time. And then you realize it doesn’t really matter does it… The how. Only that it is.

Maybe tonight is just another mask. Melancholy, to go with the others. Maybe this introspection will pass and another mask slip on, and maybe this ache will pass. Too many maybe’s.

As much as I love the night, it’s never quite good to me. Torn between sleeplessness with its ugly self realizations and nightmares that rip me apart one dream at a time.

Just a little bit more, I’ll lie awake here… wondering if she’s laying there awake too, aching over me. On the surface, the selfish mask hopes she is. But down deeper, beneath the masks, I hope she isn’t. I hope she’s sleeping peacefully, dreaming sweet dreams of anything but me.

Thankful

27 Friday Nov 2015

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thankful

Even in my darkest hours, I know it could be worse, I know there are those suffering more than me.

I’m not thankful I’m better off than those worse off than me… I’d gladly suffer in their place.

I’m thankful that I understand this, that even in the darkest parts of me, that I’m not so far lost inside of me that I forget those that suffer.

I volunteer when I can, donate when possible. It will never be enough, but I’m also thankful that I realize that.

Control

13 Tuesday Jan 2015

Posted by woundedmemories in Musings

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There are parts of me that that I cannot control. They are sometimes violent, sometimes lustful, sometimes passionate, but always intense. Trying to control these parts of me end up ripping me apart from the inside out.

Instead I focus on not letting them control me. It is a subtle difference to be sure, but a critical one. One tries to stop the impulses, the scratching inside my veins to be the things I shouldn’t be.

The other accepts the things I shouldn’t be but am and sips them from affecting who I need to pretend to be.

Subtle indeed, and if you don’t understand this, or have never had to consider it, then I am happy for you. It means your demons and monsters aren’t so close to the surface.

My control is good. It has to be. I’m just careful about what it is I’m trying to control.

Broken Trophies

27 Saturday Dec 2014

Posted by woundedmemories in Musings

≈ 5 Comments

I write so much about being broken, as if I know what it means. But if I don’t know what whole is, how can I know broken?

I know I don’t want to be fixed, I wear my jagged edges with some degree of pride. They represent all the battles I’ve won, even the ones I didn’t realize were battles at the time.

Each one of my scars, inside and out represent something I survived, physically, emotionally, and mentally. Every one of my nightmares represent a demon that couldn’t take me in life, so they had to settle for getting me in my dreams.

These writings of mine, these poems, prose and musings, they aren’t cries for help. They are abstract trophies. They are reminders of what I’ve survived, and if needed, what I can still survive.

So when I read or hear others words here or on Twitter, I don’t see the scars, I see past then to the strength that survived them.

Maybe we are broken, maybe we are some definition of whole, I don’t know. But I do know that we have survived.

My Mind

11 Thursday Dec 2014

Posted by woundedmemories in Musings

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My mind, it’s a dangerous thing. It goes places it shouldn’t, and often lingers in them.

It goes back to memories, ones I wish I could forget: A dark and dusty room that would be the first of many broken pieces of me; a cemetery with too many people that managed to feel like the emptiest place on earth; trapped in a small dark closet; a blade piercing my skin; blood on my hands not my own; and how the light faded from eyes staring into mine.

Too many places, each darker than the last. The more I try to leave it all behind the more these memories seem to haunt me. To taunt me.

But lately, I wish it wouldn’t, but too often it goes back, replays us. Trying to figure out when and how things got to the way they did. Always trying pinpoint the thing I did, the thing I said that set the end in motion. Did I know the consequences when I did or said it?

My mind gets so lost in you, completely and utterly. Distance has not mended these memories, time has not dulled this ache.

And so softly, slowly, it feels like my mind is killing me, and all I can seem to do is is wonder – how can I help it along today.

But it’s ok… this is just like every other day.

Every Breath A Little Closer To The Last

16 Thursday Oct 2014

Posted by woundedmemories in Musings, Prose

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We all have a finite number of breaths we will take in our lifetime. Each breath is one closer to the last.

I can’t decide if I should breathe slower, cherishing each one and take my time, or breathe faster, speeding up to the last page of this story.

I suspect I’ll know which breath will be my last when it comes, but will I know the second to last? Will that be the one that matters most?

Slower or faster… I’ll make sure to inhale a little deeper each time, if for no other reason than to make sure I get my fill.

Walking Through the Garden of the Forgotten

02 Thursday Oct 2014

Posted by woundedmemories in Musings, Poetry

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Tags

Death, Poetry

Sometimes
I walk through cemeteries
Looking at headstones
Wondering how many people
Have forgotten
That person ever lived

Then I wonder
If someday
Someone will walk past
My headstone
And wonder how many people
Have forgotten I ever lived at all

I feel in some sick way
I’ll be more connected
To that person
Walking through
The Garden of the Forgotten
Than with most during my life

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Recent Posts

  • Immeasurable
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  • The Nightmare Begins
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  • Almost

Recent Comments

woundedmemories on OK
bearpokes on OK
woundedmemories on OK
Antanya In The Fog on OK
Antanya In The Fog on I Have No Idea How

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