Curse of Living In Memorium

I have wasted years daydreaming and living in retrospect……

of the memories which became a different memory- like books about books which were inspired by other books.

My quiet moments have become a murmuring library of shushing and turning pages, critiquing diaries of thought,

where my past is a row of shelves categorized : for regret or to re-live.

Am I a shadow of the giant I could’ve been?

All these voices which tell of the wrong paths I have taken-

How one lane would have taken me to a faster lane which would have taken me to a different destination.

 

I am becoming my mother….

a chorus of heartache of the lands lost

and the youth gone when she built a home.

Blood of my blood-

I am the extension of she who bore me and of her mother and her mother’s mother before her.

Today, I am a repentant who thinks to change the past,

like the stone which wished to be a rock- and the rock which wished to be the earth and the earth which wished to be a star.

Are these the makings of me?

 

These stains in my memory……

that I wear in my character- which no baptizing can rinse from the depths of my skin-

I claw from my bones which rob my nights of sleep-

I am wearing faces to cover faces which mask the faces that have become the thread of my fabric.

The fabric that sewed the hearts of all the daughters in my bloodline-

who hoard and harbor the photo albums, which are sectioned into other albums of all the pains and  all the forgotten glory…..

 

Is this the composition of my DNA?

The tune that creates symphonies of the lives I have lost and the lives I created.

Background music which are melodies that turn into noise and then back into melodies to become noise that is an opera weeping in memorium.

This mountain of sound- will it become the soundtrack to curse the lives of my children?….. and my children’s children?

This wailing it keeps me up at night-

I am more awake yet I am more asleep.

 

I have not died but I have watched myself die,

When I think of how timelines could’ve  different-

If I drowned because I couldn’t swim…..

If I crashed because I lost control of the wheel…..

Or if I knew less because I couldn’t read.

Am I overthinking…..?

 

I let life become a closet-

a closet closeting closets of vintage clothes worn by me and my mother-

A time warp of women who have decided for other women….

to bleed for their daughters to wear winter coats in July-

because they realize that they didn’t decide when they decided to trade winter for the Summer.

 

Am I the judge of my own sins?

Is my past only built of sin?

Do I drink poison made yesterday to heal the wounds here today which have only scarred in my head?

Yet here I am-

past midnight-

Whipping my own back for the choices made before me-

Choices made by me-

or by them……

or by her.

 

©Sabrina Najib 

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