She remembers sitting at a desk, listening, only partially, to the professor’s lecture while her thoughts stole onto more important topics, although those, she doesn’t recall.

She remembers sunny days on campus, sepia-glazed laughter, but no rain or snow or cold.

She remembers the fear of that late Spring, colored by thoughts of freedom, future, how much she would achieve, who she would be, unstoppable.

She remembers him, with his lopsided smile and raised eyebrow, how his dancing eyes made her world an emotional vortex, the passion of wanting to crawl into another, the empty steel cylinder of bitter rejection.

One step farther takes her to someone else, who she doesn’t wish to remember. At that juncture, her mind hones to the diamond past that sparkles and mesmerizes, never realizing how coldly the gem feels.

Her memory censors, making her believe it was all good, better than now. She never questions her memories. She anesthetizes the throb, closes her eyes, sees herself dancing at 17, with her entire life spread out, a banquet of opportunity.

Memories make it easier to not be.



Sascha Darlington

6 thoughts on “Drowning

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