Child Built Walls

Jumbled up Thoughts

Memories.

Jumbled-up messes that people in my family would be quick to deny. With such favor that you would assume it was all some made-up dream.

"Well, that's not how I remember it."

"Are you sure it wasn't just a dream?"

"I would never do that."

Right.

As if my vivid memories, no matter how jumbled they may be, are just figments of an overactive child's imagination. But I think I would know, the difference between imagination and cold memories. Images that come with a surge of emotion or feeling, a flooding sense of dread or upset that I can't place my finger on.

My memories start far back into childhood, things my brain cataloged as impactful, or worth remembering. Vivid details and sensations, with only the cliff notes on how I felt at that moment. A lot of my childhood memories felt as if they were in the third person, watching my body act and be acted upon without much input from myself. I often felt disconnected and while my memories might be hazy, I can still recount in vivid detail what happened during a majority of those moments.

As I write this, I wasn't sure how to convey these memories into a story. How to make them compelling like some folklore spun tail. But, as I mull over it, I don't think I have to do that to make this book compelling. My life isn't a fairy tail woven to make you feel sorry for the main character. Or to see how each person would progress against the trials as they go.

It's just me, rambling about thoughts and memories I have, telling my story, and wondering if it's good enough to be called art. But I think in some way, it doesn't even have to be that, I think in some silly way, someone will stumble across this book, read it, and maybe in some way it will help them. Maybe in some way, my jumbled-up thoughts and experiences will offer some solace to those drifting like I am. Offer them some insight that they haven't thought of before. 

I hope that one day, when I publish my book, that it is talked about by some small niche community and I will have left my mark on the world. 

Memories are a strange thing, and I don't think I could ever spin them into some grand story like 'Glass Castle'. Because in reality, my memory is at times filled with holes that I am just trying to piece together, and my life isn't some grand story to be told. It's fairly mundane at times, soft and peaceful, or hectic and messy. 

I figure writing it out will help me find some peace within the mess. That someone will find this book and find peace within it just as I am. 

So, even if those who know me don't agree with my memories, my thoughts, or views. I just want to throw them to the wind, and have someone pick up on my thoughts and hear my voice. Allow myself to become a medium for those who have forgotten and help them find the words they need again. 

I both love and hate my memories as anyone would. Though, I think as I get older I find myself loving them more. Taking the bitter prick of sad and hurtful ones in stride and brushing them off easily. Or maybe that's because as I write this, I have found an odd peace to my morning. Reminding me that there is more to life than bitter memories and hurtful words. But that there is soft sunlight and gentle music. 

I think I like those memories the best.