Everyone wishes they could change the past.

Monday, 9 May 2011

Running down that path,

Why run? To escape.

I shall not immediately begin discussing the matters outlined previously. Instead, I shall discuss memory. Or, rather, my notebooks and their relation to my memory.

To begin, I shall outline this. The memory in your head cannot be trusted. But I cannot carry a camera around with me all the time (and cameras can be used against their operator). So, I use notebooks. Nothing special, nothing magical. Just notebooks. I keep a pen to hand at all times. If I see something of significance, I write it down. On my skin, on a scrap of paper. And every night, I copy what I've written into the notebook. I get a new notebook once a year, and put the "finished" one into a small safe which I carry around with me.

Why do this? It's simple. There have been occasions in which I wake up in the morning and look at my notebook; I find that there's something written there that I do not recall. Is this some mental flaw I have, or outside influence? Does it matter?

But I did not intend to talk about my notebooks for the entirety of the post. I must note, however, that I must be quick; the owner's of this house are on holiday. They have a cat. There's a note on the table, with a message giving instructions to whoever's feeding the cat. I don't know when they're coming. But they have closets upstairs. In summary, I'm typing in a closet. I'll type this, and turn the laptop off. Better safe then sorry.

In any case, recollections of the hating (loving) family drift by as clouds do. Their pitying looks and harsh insults were frightening; it is strange to think this is not so long ago. One night, the window in the bedroom was host to a passing shadow. One looked; one was scared. The shadow stood still, as if watching one through the window. Calling out would only further the family's thoughts that their child was going insane - they whispered to each other when they did not think it was listening. "Why is she saying we're insulting her? I tried to hug her, but she started screaming..." So the child watched the figure at the window.

And then it laughed. A harsh, guttural, choking laugh. One clogged with amusement; merriment; joy. And I was terrified. The beast stopped. I do not know how long it was there. Then it went, like feathers in the breeze. I desired to never see that silhouette ever again.

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