Picking Daisies

Memory of concept

If one were infinite, would you still forget?

  It's strange the things we push away vs. what we decide to keep such a fastened grip on.

The bad will always be secured. It left a stain much darker than the good. One that may never be scrubbed out.

Which is why the good is taken for granted. It's to be expected due to the teachings of those blinded by empathy.

  I remember constantly being sick as a child.

  That's all.

Stacks of tissues, sleepless nights, pasty skin that always seemed to itch and crawl.

  A flesh body never treated me pleasantly, as if it didn't want me; I wasn't it's master.

  Maybe it doesn't. Possibly I have stolen it, and now it recoils with revenge as I live inside it's cage of terror.

  Someone else could tame the form better than I could. Someone who deserves it.

  I wish I could recall more of being a careless tiny being, swimming in an aimless direction, with no concept of the passing of time. When I didn't have a capsule, but instead an entity of life itself.

No concept of right or wrong.

Pain, or joy.

Existence itself is both infinite and unprecedented.

After I am merely a thought, will things be as they once were? When I was bigger than all?

A void of an empty, but serene filled clueless bliss. As it was in the beginning, it shall be in the end, I suppose.

Alone, listening...to those who are without comprehensibility. Like a party through a styrofoam cup.

  I have no energy to understand what they speak, and I am too much of nothing to care.

Just sleep lightly enough to hear, and deep enough to stay with nothing but a rotting ribcage life to look back to until you slowly forget your purpose, and the cycle starts again.