We moved around a lot when I was a child. After moving from one home to another and starting another new school I was lonely. I had a bottle of (cheap) perfume I remember opening, and the scent evoked memories of my old home, my old school and the friends I had left behind. I wrote this. I must have been around 14 years old.
The small bottle was a temptation.
My drunk fingers unscrewed the cap
I inhaled the scent.
The days of my past had converged and hidden in a bottle.
The room, the faces, the looks, sounds, voices, feelings
The deterioration of the situation
Leading to this.
I took myself back to then.
My personality switched.
All was mingled in moments
And created a wave sweeping over me,
Knocking me over.
The feeling created by recollections
Was strengthened by visual aid.
In glorious technicolour feelings emerged
Security then, overcoming fear,
But then a fear of today and a yearning for then.
A demented longing for the old me.
“Today and tomorrow can only hurt,
Can only bring recollections of the past
And dread of now.
Was then a dress rehearsal?
Has the curtain still to rise?
Or has it, as my mind says,
Risen, been applauded, and fallen?”
The illegibility of past can hurt.
Incomprehensible stories translated into
How I wish it to have been.
“Let the light bulb make all clear.
I feel nothing but a storm inside.
Yesterday the sun shone.
I wish to return
I cannot conceive of being rejected”
The bottle was replaced.
I will open it again one day
When dark clouds have gone from my eyes.
The scent will be sour,
And I will be glad to replace the lid,
Never wanting to inhale it again.
Fresh fruit will be picked
Last season’s will no longer thrive.
It will fall, wither and die.
Today will become then,
Images will once again hurt.
It is a procedure.
One day even a procedure dies.
I wait for death with a quiet mind.