A tourist in a waking world, never quite awake
No kiss, no gentle word could wake me from this slumber
Until I realized that it was you who held me under
--Florence + The Machine
First written 26/5/15
Is it common to remember one’s childhood with vivid colour? From pitch black to fluorescent pink? Is it strange that my body is no longer the same body – every cell is a descendant of my former self, many generations down the line – yet I can still feel that child’s cold liquid adrenaline seeping through her veins; the seizing of her intestines; the furious thunder of her heart? The pulsing agony in her head and the twisting of her stomach? If I close my eyes, I can still count my ribs in the mirror. Yet these are new eyes – eyes that never took in light those many years ago.
A stranger once told me not to let the past define me. Perhaps I should be reborn every second. I could let go of each new memory as it is created. But what about the smell of dry leaves in the autumn? The spin of the tire swing in the back yard? Playing “ghosts in the graveyard” on that quiet street with other giggling children? Us four girls making up a ridiculous song with four-part harmony? Without my childhood, I am merely a ghost.