Why I write: A Quilt of Time

I do not lack independence, initiative, ambition.
I do not rely on Hallmark moments and Nicholas Sparks movies
to live out my teenage dreams in a fabricated reality.
I have ventured into life with an open mind and open heart and have
seen, suffered, and rejoiced with the rich fruit of experience.
Me against the world, a strong girl with a countenance far more
focused than the fan girls in lip smackers around her.
I have become a strong, independent woman,
yet, I am scared.
I am still the girl watching rain drops race across the window
curled up in the ancient threads of her ancestor’s
hand knitted blankets.
The old radio singing a song long forgotten,
the crackling voices yearning to be heard
so their stories can transcend the currents of time.
The rain drops coalesce, and the voices envelop me--
individual identities lost to a cycle of
stories-- lived and told and forgotten.
My life will bring joy and pain,
luck and regret,
out of body experiences witnessed through
my always open lens,
but I am scared that I will forget.
Forget to hit the shutter button on all my senses
to remember where I came from and how I became so strong.
Memories racing, drops condensing, time always moving forward,
the present muffling the crackling past,
fading snapshots of my previous reality as the future usurps.
I write to capture these moments,
freezing the drops of time into an elaborate network of memories.
The golden threads of wisdom quilting the ancient memories
that beget my present self.
I am not scared of the future,
I am scared of forgetting.
Forgetting the ocean blue, the chalk board green, the dusty oranges of unceasing sunsets.
My words paint the picture of my history,
threading together each moment that has built me.
Rain drops continue to race across the window,
but the voices of my past are clear in my head as
I wrap myself in the colors of my past.

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