Much from the past is buried in the catacombs certain memories lie –
That part of the mind that seeks to forget
– For some reason which is vague to her.
Perhaps the past that is forgotten,
Would bring with it some ache if remembered.
Memories come as unconnected, unordered flashbacks, as glitches.
Now they are here. Now they are gone.
Others caress the mind, putting one cerebral against the other;
Leading them on, giving away nothing.
These ones, she likes and dislikes.
She’s a contradicter.
But when something
Of the likeness of joy seizes her,
And a memory be born of it,
She offers it a place among her
World of remembrance
She takes the pictures and make a story from them;
The time she frowned,
The time she laughed out loud.
When she acted a lout,
Or a genius from among her few acquaintances.
She imagined kissing a man wearing no hair
Around his temples.
And using her fingers to feel the skin beneath his beard and moustache.
And wondered why he and four other role players are smoking,
The first thirty minutes of the movie she’s seeing.
She imagined again, what it will be like
To just grab a smoke out of her purse,
As did them moments ago.
She’s a rebel. A quiet and conscious one.
Obscenity lurks around the words she’s about to speak
A telling of what shouldn’t be heard, places itself on her tongue
She’s a rebel. But she’s a conscious and quiet one.
She speaks them loud;
Only from within.
This is about her.
But this is not all to her.
About her, I will write, when the night becomes quiet again
And the only sounds I hear
Be the ones I filter
Through this thin membrane;
Visible to all who, nocturnal they are,
Are ordinary and human.
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