Promise Me You Won’t Remember and I’ll Tell You Everything

My only motivation to write is to interrupt the pure, blankness of the page. It’s a struggle to bring myself to the task. A task… That must be why I fight it.

During those several weeks I never saw it as a task. To pick up a pen and paper was a relief. It was a way to catch the overflow; a way to stop the drain.

Sometimes I try to draw comparisons with the ringing noises. Crickets? Cicadas? Screams? It’s not an easy thing to do. Rehearsing in my head… for my head… using memories from my head… while my head screams at me. It feels like I need to reach beyond consciousness. But it’s hard to focus. And it’s hard to think about focusing.

Until… reboot. I can’t remember what I was thinking. I can’t think of what I’m trying to remember. Yet I can see it falling away. But it’s dark. Well it’s not even physical. There is nothing to see. Though I keep trying, and every grasp to hang on further shakes the foundations. Sometimes the tremor plateaus. Sometimes the plateau breaks apart.