witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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I realized why I've been baking so frequently. It never occurred to me until I began remembering my dreams. Until fragments of something woven from my imagination would tear the fibers of a mossy inner dialogue and bring to the forefront a thought, a memory that would make me reflexively gasp out loud in public.

I had repressed so much from my past. I became so good at it that I would never have known a memory belonged to me until a sound, familiar scent or unwelcome sight stirred within me a reality long sunken in my own fictive bubble.

My dreams are coming to me aggressively, with an unsteady, violent haste. Digging up graves I buried so long ago and rattling the bones of corpses I already bid adieu to.

I hate remembering it all. These are things I never told anyone. Barely even to myself. They happened and I was too young to question them. To understand why, or how. I just knew they were out of the ordinary. I felt them, blinked, then locked them immediately in a chest (one figurative, the other with a beating heart), hoping it would remain sealed for life. But these dreams; they're hunting (and haunting) those dusty recollections like pirates chasing gold.

The harder I try to blur those thoughts, the sharper they become. Cutting into me like a knife made from my own teeth. I'm chewing myself up.

I know the one resolution is to confront it all. Unlock that chest myself. But the thought of hearing its door creak open forms a lump in my throat so large, I drown in my own spit.

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8:46 p.m. - Thursday, Apr. 09, 2009

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