Adventures in Zombieland: On Fault Lines

Today I have been thinking about cracks and the things that slip through them. Little things: window raindrops, Hachii yawns, New York pizza grease, favourite songs long since forgotten. Memory is such a fickle mistress - I don't think one needs a mental illness to appreciate the fragility of things. The way we can't hope to keep all of our memories locked up, or even most of them. I think perhaps our brains might explode if we tried.

Mental illness is something of a fault line, though. On days like these, I feel as if all of the lovely things have slipped away without a trace - into that yawning gap. And out comes insecurities I'd wished could stay locked up.

(You know the ones, I'm sure. What if all my friends secretly hate me? What if I was never all that good of a writer? What if everything I do and everything I'm proud of is truly laughable? What if - what if - what if - I never imagined two words could have the power to exhaust me so deeply.)

Here's the thing: my brain tells me it's unreasonable; my heart begs to differ.

Are we allowed to choose which memories to keep? At the moment, I feel like all the bad ones are coming to the surface and the good ones are lost somewhere far beyond the horizon. Or worse: they are there, but just out of reach. Just past my line of sight.

Today, my life feels like a patchwork quilt of blues and greys. All those warm sunshiny colours have been cut out meticulously, laid in a pile of scraps off to the side somewhere. (Thrown into the fault line, perhaps? Mixing metaphors rarely works out, but I hope you see what I'm trying to get at.)

Sometimes I think panic attacks would be preferable to this slow bleakness. Earthquakes are the natural consequence of fault lines, are they not? (Of course, whenever panic attacks occur, I could swear the sadness is much preferable. What a horrible, vicious cycle this is.)

So there are the good memories and there are the bad memories. And today my grasping fingertips are a bit useless to catch the former. The warm, dark cracks are a more welcome home than my thorny brain, I think.

And so it goes: I watch them escape, soft and sudden, like an inevitable goodbye.