Interlude #2

Sometimes the worst thing about living is remembering. We’re risen fearing the things under our beds, or bolting the closet door because, we’re sure, the thing within it is just waiting to come out. And we believe those things because we don’t know any better. Then we grow up and come to realise the world is no longer a sunny, delightful, little place.

Then, of course, there is the burden of memory.

We try to forget, we try to convince ourselves we did what we had to and things always happen for a reason (reasons sometimes not always apparent to us at the time) but we know, deep down, the worst of our recollections will never truly leave us. Instead, they lurk at the backs of our minds, eating us alive, occasionally presenting our conscious minds with brightly lit images, while other times we will only ever hear voices and past conversations seep across the colourless void.

Then you realise, when all is said and done, there really are worse things in life to be endured than imagining the monsters in your closet or the creatures beneath your bed raking at the boards.

You realise there is life ... and sometimes that life is a whole lot harder to endure than surviving a single night against whatever horde we imagined to be real and hiding in the dark.

Yes, sometimes the worst thing about living is remembering.