Here is what this is about. I don't know what I'm about. Nor does anybody else.

Things, like time, are war. Games. War games. Time—is of the essence. Life, too, is also of the essence. I grasp the heavy rifle in my hands. I blast the abyss with bullets of memories, leaving sparkling lights that slowly dim into the darkness. Often, I wish I were still younger. My terrain in my head, then, was a much smaller area to blow up.

Time after time, we do not have the luxury of forgetting that time is of the essence. The second hand unwinds. The drum beats out of time.

Days and time whirl us up in its violent tornado. Lives living a billion schedules, pattering around the world in an infinitely interactive lacy web.

Somewhere. Some wheres. Somethings. Things. My bed. My paintings. My Le Creuset Enameled Cast Iron Dutch Oven. Blue Azure.

Now. I’m a writer. With published books. My published books are romance novels. Now I write my memories. My memories are rarely the same story accurately remembered. So. So I’m forcing myself to scrawl each version of the stories I remember. Then I just try to fit all the pieces together in a way that—fits. Or—doesn’t.

I love pretty stories. I love writing. Now I write. Now I’m in the middle of a tornado. Throwing the letters & words & exclamation points!!!

My brain is inside my skull. I know this is true because I’ve seen it. Seen images of this. In the X-ray, I see the tornado, violently rotating within a column of air. This whirlwind slices out pieces of what’s left in my mind. I see it scattered over the people I've known all my life or, seemingly, all my life.

I’m not sure why. I'm pretty sure I don't want to know why. Even if I knew why, I wouldn't remember anyway. Time. Flies. It's just a game I've never managed to search through successfully.

My memories. Carnival games. Loud. Tacky. Frustrating. Exhausting. But. What isn’t?

ABOUT TIME

Shrapnels OF Memories

Brain Damage, My Mom and Me