chittr

Memory is not a gift. It is a wound that never closes. People speak of memories as treasures, as warm little lanterns carried through the dark. They are wrong. Memory is a graveyard. A place where every mistake, every humiliation, every loss is buried shallow enough for the hands to keep clawing their way back to the surface. The mind does not heal. It preserves. A cruel word spoken twenty years ago can remain untouched, pristine as the day it was uttered. A face long dead can still stare from the corners of your thoughts. A failure can linger beneath the skin like a splinter of rusted iron, festering quietly until the infection reaches the heart. Memory rots. It decays inside us, but it never leaves. The happiest moments fade first, worn smooth by time. Yet suffering remains sharp. The betrayal. The grief. The guilt. They survive like parasites nestled deep within the folds of the brain, feeding on attention, growing fat on regret. Every night they whisper. Every silence gives them room to speak. And the worst part is that they wear your own voice. You become the jailer and the prisoner. You revisit old wounds, picking at them until they bleed anew. You walk the same corridors of pain again and again, tracing scars that should have faded but never do. The past is not dead. It hangs from the ceiling of the mind like a corpse, dripping steadily into the present. Drop by drop. Year by year. Until everything tastes of it. Until every joy is stained by what came before. Until the rot spreads so far that you can no longer tell where the memory ends and where you begin. That is the cruelty of memory. Not that it fades. But that some parts refuse to die. They remain buried within us, cold and patient, waiting for quiet moments to rise from their graves and remind us that the things we survived are still alive somewhere inside our heads, bleeding in the dark.