My Hidden Memory Library

I want to be a child again.

Maybe that isn’t the exact way to phrase it, but is there ever really a time when someone doesn't want to go back into the comforting, naive nature of childhood? Wouldn't it be sacred to return to the sweet embrace of a mother not yet burnt, a brother not yet ill, a child not yet mourned?

I don't have many memories of my childhood since they’re trapped away behind doors I’m never going to be able to open. That's how my developing mind hought was safest: it’s not a perfect solution, but it wasn’t as though I had any control of that. My synapses fired before I could stop them. They say the mind can move on its own, and I haven't the faintest doubt they're right.

Every little memory is partitioned away into files protected under lock and key. My brain is a archive beloning to another - watch as the librarian peruses through, noting every upside down book, a cracked cover, a torn spine. Someone else gets to siphon through those memories while I stay a passive observer. My body is constrained to my seat even as the librarian is swift on their feet. I don't know who that librarin is, if I'll ever meet them, if they're kind for giving me this service for free. Perhaps that's for the best.

Neither of us knows what happens if another joins their ranks, for that's never happened before. Not that I know of at least. Then again, there are plenty of things I don't know, even things that happen between the stacks.

Over time, it gets easier watching this practice play out, when someone knows more about me than I do, when my memories belong to someone else and not fully me anymore. I watch my life play out behind a thick sheet of glass, zoo-like and a bit crass. Is it voyeristic of me to watch? I know that's me, but the me I see can't truly be me. Those aren't my mannerisms, my touches, my tone. Those are all things I've never truly owned.

Sometimes, in the dead of night when I turn off my lights or during the crisp crack of dawn, I wonder what it would be like to hold those memories myself, to become a librarian as well. How much would the key weigh? Are the folders decayed, papers frayed? If I dare touch them will they crumble beneath my hesistant finger trips? How long will it take to learn the map of this library?

Post-reconstruction, I'm nothing but a stranger, a foreign patron.

I know I mustn't see those memories, my childhood spanned from beginning to now. It's for the best I never see them again. However, I imagine a picturesque utopia where everything is wonderful, where everything is safe, where I was happy - but I know this isn’t the case. If it were I wouldn’t have my memories filed away for someone else to protect me from. Or protect from me.

It’s difficult to explain to other people: they think I’m lying, I’m blowing this all out of proportion, but this is the dim reality. I can’t avoid it, only better manage it. I've gotten quite good at managing the perfect liar that I am.

For now though, I’d rather not sit and wonder what is kept behind those doors, what all those locks are protecting me from. They’re there for a reason of course, and I fear that if I see the memories that I’ll fiure it out, and that isn’t safe for anyone.