Lyrical Rememberance

They say there is nothing quite like finally remembering a story. The intricate trappings, the details, every tiny nuance and then, like a soft flutter of butterfly wings returning to grace your body, the letters. The beginnings of the construct, the base you need to find your precious words. Those that resonated so deeply as to be ingrained on your soul.

If this is true, then so too, must the opposite be true. To never remember that story. To have mere gossamer strands of perfect prose smother you, suffocate you as you breathe in the half-remembered bits of lyricism. Cobbled bits and pieces that tease and torment you with their sheer beauty that you cannot seem to recall. It grates at you. It is no longer a precious butterfly, whole and perfect but a tattered and slashed leftover. A disgusting, revolting facsimile of something that once was everything and always would be.

You will never remember that story. It exists only in dreams and grips into your mind with sharp, piercing talons in the daylight. Mocking your memory and lack thereof until you know you will go mad.

You will never remember that story. Know this. Lament.

And die.