Isn't it a Pity

...This is a pieces from something I'm trying to write, thought I'd leave it here for you guys, rather than it sitting on my comupter for year after year...

My mind is a sea of images, a twinkling of light, a whisper through branches. Within I hold pain. Always such a pain... Calling, beckoning my presence, demanding. And sometimes it's more than that, it commands action. Like a spike through the gut, a pin pressing in, shackles rusting on. Then, somehow, in a few small moments, a few short spaces, I find it lessening. Just a tad, slightly, for a moment, as though making a change in its grasp, its fingers readjusting. But in this tiny sigh of relief, I can only find myself growing more weary, never able to fully disengage, never, ever forgetting, never wanting to. Its whereabouts always chilling my spine, awaiting its return, somber, my eyes taxed, pressed closed. If I blinked them open, turned to face its approach, could I survive? Did I expect to see the resentment of the past, looming and spoiled, enough to cause nature's purest hues to rot and fade away? Would I be satiated by the familiarity of the present, this box in which I now live, its sheltered position left open for only a few ailed fists to burst about? Or could I ever hope to escape into the unknown waters of the future, be unburdened into wavelengths, be tided over until I didn't have to pretend to forget... or more so forgive... myself.