Wooden Frame

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After years of stiffly hanging on the left wall of my room, the picture frame fell apart. It just happened so fast. Just so damn fast. I was merely staring at the beauty that had left my life when suddenly the feeling of losing her came rushing back again. The last memorabilia I had of her dropped off the wall in fragments until chunks of broken, hand-craven wood laid bestrewed upon the floor. All of the beautifully embellished, painstakingly stained, hand-carved wooden picture frame is bestrewed all across my dusty, hadn’t-been-cleaned-in-weeks bedroom floor. That frame doesn’t deserve that. My heart doesn’t deserve that either.

Everything that reminds me of her is slipping away from me. I shouldn’t even say slipping. My memories and her creations stare at me placidly until one day they decide to pitch a suicidal tantrum, beating their head on the ground with such ferocity and impatience, only a few moments pass before they beat themselves to death. Limp bodies of memories and artistic expression just to be chucked over the cliff of my mind. I never can  recover the life I once felt from remembering those memories or seeing those creations, so why bother to keep them around? They were too unrecognizable and too bloody to be truly appreciated.

Eventually, I will forget practically everything about her except her name. Maybe I will remember what I have on tape or what I have in writing. Maybe I won’t lose any of that or maybe any of that won’t lose me. Maybe, just maybe. But I will never remember a live memory. That rush I still vaguely feel now will soon fade, leaving nothing but a ghost. A sad, emotionless ghost of thoughts about her, her life, her wants, her everything.

I just want to remember her everything again. If she could hear me, I would beg for forgiveness. “I’m so sorry I’m forgetting you. I so damn sorry,” I would say. I would burst into shaky tears with my arms wrapped around my chest, trying to keep myself from falling apart. From falling apart just like that wooden picture frame. Her wooden picture frame . . .

I know years will go by before I touch the pile of embroidered wood. The years will be slow, tortuous, emotionless ghost-like thoughts, and suicidal tantrum throwing memories and artwork, filled years, but still years. My heart is too young to withstand such aging pain as of now and for a while more.

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