My heart won’t slow down.
It keeps beating itself out, thumping on its war drums.

I am afraid.

I am afraid of how my memory works.

8 months ago, when I first move to this town, her face was all that I could remember every single time I went home from work.
In a flash, she came to my mind, and I would instantly remember her features.
Her nose, her lips, her eyes, her hair, her neck, her voice, everything.
But now, it’s as if my memory starts to fail me.
Because like I said, it did took me a flash, but it gets worse.
Now, it takes me seconds just to remember how her smile looks like.

It’s like my memory has grown increasingly distant, that I have this problem of building up her face, body, and all, inside my memory– as if I’ve turned into a lousy, outdated Graphics Processing Unit that slows down few hundred milliseconds every single day just to render the image of her inside my head.

Realizing this, I felt an instant pang of dread.

What if, one day, I’ve forgotten the most important thing in my soul?

What if, because we won’t have the chance to – or she just doesn’t want to – talk, see, or even embrace each other again, she fades from my head one day?

What if somewhere inside me there is a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped into worthless junks and slowly turning into mud ?

More than a year ago, when she and I were constantly talking to each other, she did fill my heart and mind, and of course she’s far more vivid in my memory than now.
She loved to write about me and about us, and I, often tried that too.
But the words never did come out, I could never made it happen.
Because she was too sharp and too clear, like trying to fit hundreds of thousands or even millions of words into one, small, 2 x 1 metres whiteboard.

Maybe ever since our last talk over Skype, it started to happen in my memory.

And maybe that’s why I am able to write about her ever since.

I clutch these fading, imperfect memories with desperately intensity inside my heart and soul, like a mother trying to protect her child by clutching them tight near her breast, protecting them from anyone that is trying to kill them.
I know that eventually, I will die, we all will someday, and moments before that, might be the last time I could remember her, no matter how long or how fast my memory could bring her to the surface of my heart and mind.

But, please, not now– not while I live– not while my heart still ache for her warmth– not while the fire still burns wildly within my body and soul.

Yes, I am afraid– and I could if I would, write those words thousands and thousands of times: I am afraid– I am afraid of how my memory works.

The fear filled me, and have taken me completely with unbearable sorrow right now.
And all I want at this moment, is just to hug her, and feel her bare skin with my own hands, while slowly caressing her hair and gently kiss her forehead.
I want her image to once again fill me and blend with me like a ghost possessing a body– with all its perfect imperfections– and drenched in her grace.

I just want her, and her only.

Not the ideas, not the thoughts, and not the superficial shits people put on the internet, social medias, or whatever it is that people usually do.






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