Memoirs of an Amnesiac

Chalk dust finally settles on an uncleaned ledge. Classroom hallways are quiet even with the occasional twitter of the bird that has built its nest near the windows of my classroom. The gentle breeze caresses my wondering thought, as I sit in one of the chairs, willing my whole body and soul to the occasional oblivion of the room, engulfing me like fire set to dance.

Class records will pay its final tribute to the batch that was, along with its concomitant joys and pains. Books that used to be one's trusty companion along life's obstacles and conundrum will have to be left creased and unopened, reminiscent of the authors and writers who were trapped in their own fantasies and realities.

They will not walk in these hallways anymore. Their laughter and noneducational noise will all be kept in a box filled with great memories and stored in the hard recesses of my brain.

It will take a while before I open that box again. Somehow I know, not all of it will be complete. Not the exact the number, not the exact moment.

From afar, I hear it again. That march, that song that triggers a million other memories that have seeped through my brains. How long has it been since the last time I heard it? Has it been forever? It seems like yesterday. A year has passed and now I'm again faced with my own blues, this separation anxiety is gnawing through my veins like black crows, pecking on my flesh.


Pain surges inside me, wanting to me to bask in its radiance. I just console myself that somewhere in those horizons, I will find them sailing through like birds with wings ready to take flight and conquer unknown worlds without horizons.