Mammaries

I have stories from my youth stored in little compartments somewhere around my brain. They're all shuffled around in there, but somedays I like to reach in and pull one out. Its like a vending machine of my formative years. I open up each compartment and laugh at the memory. From pretending there is a monster under my bed named Tumourboggle who reaches out from under the darkness and flaps his arm at me kind of like he's whipping me with a wet towel (that was in university), or dancing to PYT in a bar and recieving free drinks for my skills. Im glad I have these stored someone. But when I look at the compartment from which I grabbed them, I see an expiry date telling me the times have past. An overwhleming rush of nostalgia races through my bloodstream, paining me as it hits my brain, I realize I will never live these moments again.

There is a time through sobriety; through a binge of clarity where your thoughts go ice skating hand in hand with your fondest memories. Circling, water undulating under the surface, those memories turn sour and inevitability forces you to crash through the ice. Now you're dead, and what was that all for?

"We don't have to be mean because, remember no matter where you go, there you are."
- Buckaroo Bonzai