Future Bleeds to Colour

Who am I, is only answered with who I am, all the images in my mind build the fabric of me, the places I played as a child, the cities I visited with lovers whose faces I can't quite recall, the endless sunsets and rolling hills I gazed upon as I dreamed about the future.

But now what fate awaits the future once it becomes the past? Once we have passed through the now, where do those tangible elements that make us continue to exist?

We attempt to freeze it with the photographic image, to stop time, yet it all melts away. The memory becomes weak, time becomes distorted, places merge and the colours bleed.

I find myself breathless, panting, running through the darkened forest of existence, desperation beating through my chest, grasping for a glimpse of memories in the ether.

I can see them all crystal clear yet entangled in my mind, the edges torn, the colours run. Their existence communicated through that aching nostalgia, that longing to return.

I strive to pin the locations to a fixed point in memory, in time, mapping the longitude and latitudes of life events.

Their echoes reverberate in my behaviours, a spectral trail of the ‘me’ who once rode the linear path of time, atop a horse that resembles an old pet dog, holding the memory of a plastic pirate sword.

Forever racing into the battle against the transience inherent in life, my army grows stronger with each passing year, the ranks swell with who I have been, strengthened in the knowledge my future self will be here soon enough as I look for a place to drop the anchor, to fix this existence in the now.

The future always bleeds to colour, and the edges always fray, reduced to numbers, to become a binary edict in the opus of decay and renewal.