The Things I Carry

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The things I carry are useless and only have permission to follow me by my heart and heart alone. My mind doesn't care, in fact its suffocated because all the crap I carry is in the way. It's always in the back of my mind whether I want it there or not. The things I carry are the things I loath, that I suppress and that I pretend are something else. My heart lies to my mind so that these things can manage to stick around. And it works. I hate my heart because it is deceiving and knows it. My heart harnesses and holds in confidence the things I carry. It holds my past, my present, and what I believe to be my future. What I believe to be my destiny and my demise. I carry the things I don't want to hear and what I pretend to have forgotten I've heard. 2

I secretly love what I carry. Thought most of it only brings me pain I know if any of it were to ever leave my side I wouldn't be who I am today, I wouldn't be whole. The things I carry have formed me into the person I never wanted to be in some ways and almost to who I wish I could be in others. Its funny the things I carry. Its like they carry me. Always holding me up like the star player by the team. Thats what I mean by deceiving. I hate liars, I hate my heart. I hate what it tells me and I hate what it doesn't. Like when you tell some to tell you something isn't true but you know it is, the truth that is hard to face and even harder to let go of after the shock from realization has died. Its those feelings that break me down and let my heart win.3

I carry my past. The most resonating memories that through time I've demented until there is no fact left to twist and melt down to be reformed into something new, into a lie that can only seep the truth and never let it run wild. Thats what keeps the truth on a leash. 4

If I could let one thing that I carry go it would be my past. Memories that only haunt me when I'm awake and thinking. As I write this paper I let those memories, if only those, have just a little leeway only so that I can reflect on them and portray my feelings properly. But thinking can be a dangerous thing to do. If you ponder on a thought too long than it becomes an obsession. And if you ponder too hard than you are only hurting yourself. Memories are meant to be misunderstood and brief, otherwise they become more than a memory but more like a part of your self-conscious. It becomes that thing that sticks in the back of your mind when really you don't want it there. And you will hate it. You will hate it like it was a deadly disease you were on the verge of catching.5

I remember so much. I remember so little. What you don't want to remember can be suppressed, hidden and stored away. But with caution and care is the way to do it if needed so. Why would you really? What could possibly be so terrifying and upsetting that you would have to rip at your own memory and tear it to little shreds so viscously? That you would risk spilling your own blood and tears over? A death? Love and loss? Trials or murder? How much of these have you endured to its fullest? I find it all so self explanatory though. If you are reading this now, alive, breathing, than you have not endured. Not to the fullest, not to its possible extant. So what is your excuse for hiding from your own mind? Tough childhood? Rape maybe? Even drugs? Or do you just not want to talk about it? Didn't think so. 6