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Saturday, November 27, 2010

Innocence


Lydia Nolan © May 5, 2006

(Aka Elle Ruiz)



Memories—groping like a blind child, outdoors…

Rummaging—through boxes filled with discarded toys…



Looking for moments that define adult phases;

Adults—markers, which lead to current dazes.




Who was I then, before becoming me?

What happened to my faith?

How did I compress my existence

Into this shallow, momentous day?



... I search desperately for a model, a memory...

...The crude evidence of history... .



In a file—in my brain—tomes of memories,

Tomes of emotional cabinets…filled with them…



But, this is old hat — these lost worlds—bleed into me.

Lost Horizons, found in blizzards of sad secrecy.





Dark nights, blindness in the blizzard; one signal light

Memories I seek, whilst I begin to see its flight



Far away, it looks like warm tides at sea: someone is with me

Though the sight is more like fantasy—



Yes—refreshed: some atrocity

First events: not like it should be.



Shall I not want to remember those parts of childhood, too?

Every incident, trauma or joy, has made me this adult I am—




Better to have found the memories: the personality...

The happy, and sad memories altogether, all of me—and someone…



Ah, but we were only children… Not my fault...Shhhh, Don’t cry…



Children feel the rhythm of their own zeal

Rhythms of simple ecstasies — even now, I can feel it:

So real



Not erotica; not sexual, as adults—not that way,

But the natural joy in children—and curiosity



We jumped out of our britches, made a simple day fun…

We swam in a slick naked lake; troubled noone.



If someone was watching, who really cared?

The lake was cool, and easy, and how we dared to race in water…



All is memory: the laughter of children who share...

Sometimes sometimes heartbreak, but we do not share, or ever tell…



We were only children... Not our fault... Shhh, don’t cry…





The ocean—inside, outside lakes, inside bodies of water: black and white; good and light,

Boldly refreshing…natural, giving, taking, sharing; children making fun like fish, threshing…



Ah, to be children again...



When I was a child, I thought as a child…

But now, I’ve put away childish things…


We grow up. We learn to compress emotions, then make them die…
But they're hidden:
In a file—in my brain—tomes of memories,

Tomes of emotional cabinets…filled with them…

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