the Time Machines

Time travel
the Time Machines

Sometimes I have this urge to go find a place that I have no memory of or a place with no associated memories so I can have somewhere to go to and not be compelled to feel what I don’t want to or what I had already in the past because with each of those memories, clinging on to these places I’d be,  opening portals, taking me places I don’t want to see anymore, making me meet people whom I left there, locked with that old me, making me travel in time but always backwards and back here when I occasionally snap out of it.
Invisible, indestructible, infernal . . . Time Machines psyching my psyche up to speak to the ghosts hovering between then and now  holding hands with the hands of the clock, eager to turn them back sparking off thunderstorms in my skull, flooding out my eyes now and again, flushing out the pain momentarily and only so but these momentary memories keep coming back time and again as if they want to stay. They know they can’t; I know they can’t and all this time travel is only a journey spiraling steadily away from reality to lairs where yesterdays and morrows coexist in today’s dreamy sorrows, getting my mind forcefully addicted to this wanderlust of insanity rippling through the past, amounting to bilocation as I hear  its footfalls calling my name from behind the veils of what we call time.

And to think of those who still think time travel has yet to be invented is hilarious though. We have all been doing it deliberately or accidentally everyday, right before we fall asleep or hanging on to those horcruxes of melodies that have been shared or reliving everything through photographs we all have our mode of transportation but we all make that journey nonetheless and furthermore we try to rid ourselves of those but no matter how hard we try to fall sleep faster than we usually fall apart or how many times we delete those tunes off or cast all albums aside, we always end up stumbling on that one thought we’ve been avoiding; listen to that one song elsewhere or be reminded of picture books gathering dust, feeding themselves darkness just as I keep going to places I can’t untie me from.

So, to this day, I still sail to find a place free of weather worn walls that sing me my stories back and dead trees which speak of who I used to be, where I can be what I am now, who I am now because I am tired of dwelling in yesterdays, being dragged there quite unwillingly, only finding sighs not deep enough to be heard but sad enough to be sighed upon, trapped between what had been what would be.

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