My mind is a landfill.
I wish it was a cemetery. I wish that bad memories and experiences were buried deep in the frozen ground with just a small tombstone rising above each, noting something existed there once. I wish they were kept safe behind tall walls and I would only visit them once in a while, in peace. To remember. I would put some flowers on the gray pebbles – not trying to keep them alive, but to appreciate the impact they had on my life.
I wish my good memories were displayed in a great art gallery, for me to wander around the halls and feel inspired, to sit on the bench and stare for hours at the painting that still brings me so much joy.
Instead, there’s a landfill. Both good and bad memories are tangled in a big pile of reeking trash, parts of it slowly burning, the smoke veiling my view and making it hard to breathe.