Between Memories and Metaphors

Metaphors: Wonderful words gathered to mean what they do not mean apart.

They have the power of conveying meanings,

ordinary words can only dream of.

Emotions are their seeds.

Sensibility is the water they need.

Realism kills their core, and clinical souls are never their home.

I cannot recall the first time I got introduced to them, but, surely, since then, they never left the mind I own.

The mind I own is more like a maze.

The most complex one you'll ever know.

Even I get lost out there sometimes.

I link everything with every other thing.

Places with things, things with people, so people with places and all the left possibilities, concepts, feelings and words added to the equation.

In my world, nothing is modest enough to mean one thing only.

I must have more neurons than needed.

The connections within my mind are easily endless.

I would get sent from an idea to another so on and so forth, no end in sight, if not strong enough to stop.

Yes, writing metaphors comes as easy to me as breathing,

however, I would gladly give them all back.

I would trade them all for the most realistic boring mind you have.

They are all yours. I'm better off without them. Please, take them all!

I don't mind things being only what they are, never more than that.

Like schools being just a place rather than my lost happiness,

Trips just trips not my funeral, a book simply that.

Let the mornings be the early time of the day, not the start of another failure.

Let the rain be water drops, not tears about that day.

Let that sport be just a sport, not the brother I lost.

Memories: The storage of what once was.

My memory is nothing but a traitor, holding on the most unpleasant events, never the happy ones,leaving the space for what hurts never welcoming useful information, instead.

I never liked what she did, Producing flashbacks when I needed them the least, dragging me down into the black hole my memories formed.

Everything reminds me of all what once was.

A book leads to a person that person to a concept that concept to a day that day to a word. Inspired, I say a metaphor.

Yes, it is a closed circle.

From a memory to a metaphor to a memory to a metaphor,

Some days, I think it's hopeless.

As a foreign person to my own self, I sit at a corner and watch scenes of myself struggling to get out of this circle.

Other days, I am lucky for being busy, forced to think about normal things like normal people.

Maybe that's why I no longer enjoy loneliness but like regular people get terrified of it.