Writing Inspired by Anxiety - Remembering Nothings

[Eunni]

Can a spirit suffocate, after too long without breath?  Can a heart die after a long, lonely sleep?  Tell me, do I look alive to you?
It’s been so long since I was happy.   Times beginning, maybe.

Hard, no, impossible to remember through the thick black curtain, the folds of which keep me from the stage.   Have I ever been a player?  Worn the simple, smiling mask that could change tragedy into laughter?
Declaimed my lines, gestured to heaven, to hell, grimaced with laughter or pain?   Held hands with fellow players, as the thunder of applause brought down the curtain again?  Clutched my chest, your chest, Brutus, brought down by the treacherous dagger or heart’s spasm?
I don’t remember, I don’t think so.

Have I touched, been touched, really truly felt?  Through the thick fog that rises off the Charon it is hard to see past.  Have you felt me, have I touched you , or are you, too, a dream like me, doomed to forever wander hoping for an instant’s magic, the miracle of a moment because an hour of unrestrained joy without solitude of spirit is too much to hope for?   Can you taste the pomegranite of despair, and are we forever captured by the masters of our own heart’s darkness?  The coins that press against my eyelids weigh an eternity, and I can not see.   Or is there a spring for us, and a summer, and with autumn and winter behind us, before us, always and again?
I don’t remember.  It’s possible.

What would mark my passing, if I passed?  The chill of a need, a black, twisted being that dwells inside the ghost, the need that obsessed forever about his own dark heart and never lifted lantern to reveal another’s carapice?  Who will erect a tombstone, or a masoleum, for a spirit who ghosted, empty, through echoing halls, but made no sound, the chillness of the atmosphere not natural with the absence of a soul...I wouldn’t, I won’t.  Not that I could, for these hands are to insubstantial to carve a mane, a place, a thought–Memory does not arm them, make them heavy, make them true, and they will not serve Memory for itself alone.  So trapped in an office of my own discontent I lay awake and review all the things I will never have done, least of which was walking with you, on the warm sand, your hand in mine, and making love by moonlight in tide.

Or did I?
I don’t remember.