The Haunting of a Memory – Feature Writer: Ravneet
“Love is short, forgetting is so long.” Pablo Neruda
Like a ghost wandering the surface of life, the haunting of a memory never truly fades away. It simply finds itself embraced by the depths of one’s soul, searching for an exit from the confinement of the past and an entrance into the present.
Sometimes all I want to do is guard down the doors of my conscience with heavy-duty locks and chains of steel that can hold back the ghost of memory. But He has always had this certain swiftness to Him, a type of grace that almost leaves me in awe. Every time I am certain that I have moved on, I look back to find the chains in pieces and the locks intertwined perfectly with fitting keys. He always escapes. Always.
I will be sitting in my bedroom with a book propped open and a candle dancing gracefully to its own crackling when He decides to pay a visit. It will send a shiver down my spine like a thousand microscopic butterflies trying to escape the sinking in my stomach. I try not to greet Him, hoping that my lack of enthusiasm will provide a hint but He’s never been too interested in the games. All He wants is to win. And he wins every single time.
All of a sudden, I am devoured by a type of pain that I could not wish on the devil himself. A type of pain that cannot be treated with a few bandages or doses of morphine. Instead it writhes in my heart like a venomous snake reminding me of all the poison I did not learn to let go of. I see myself in a state of pure distress, pen in hand, laced with ink trying desperately to scribble my hurt away. More like a patient rather a writer, I allow myself to bleed onto my pages of my journal without any sort of fear. I need to let the snake out, I must set it free from the cages of my heart.
He simply glares at me from the corners of the darkness catching the faintest of light to expose the viciousness in His eyes. This is His entertainment, this is the reason He returns time after time. And I always find a way to put on the best horror production this world will ever see. I open the door for the one who is uninvited.
I beg for Him to go, to leave me alone in my own state of madness. He crackles with laughter possessing a troubled undertone and I can sense the sickening pleasure He is rewarded with from feeding on my vulnerability. I scream and thrash for the lights to stop flickering and the horrifying sounds to silence- His wicked grin growing bigger with every cry that escapes my mouth. I want it to stop. I want him to leave.
The lights will eventually stop flickering and all will go dark as the night. That is when I know He has left. The haunting is over for the time being but I am not naïve. He will return. He always returns. Bringing along with Him another form of torture to inflict my weakening sanity. I am not sure how many more visits I can take before I become one of Him as well. Would you look at the irony in that? I am saving myself from the haunting of what my future inevitably has in store for me.
If memory were a ghost