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Sensory Memories

This is a colection of my Sensory Memories. They're self-explainitory


As I clean my rooms I stare at the pictures on their walls. They're of family, friends, and images of themselves in younger years. Then I think to myself "There is so much life here, so much experience."
All of these people, coming from different places, different lives, all end them in the same place. Sometimes I wish I could just cry because those lives, those wonderful memories, end in that one small building.


I'm sitting in my grandmother's dining room with a notebook in hand. The smell of fried squash fills the room , and I start writing, my hand making angry strokes on paper. I'm angry because I put my pride, lust, desire, and selfish thoughts befor the Lord.
I stare at my work in disgust. I close the book and go to my room, where I sin again.


Noises all around me. Sounds of the preacher loudly but gently telling his congregation to be fed up with their sin and pray that Jesus save you from it.
I am already there.
I was fed-up. I was tired of acting like a horny teenage child who's sole purpose was to find a way to get pleasured. I was tired of ME!
So I knelt there, a cousion under my arms, and earnestly sought out Yeshua BarYahweh. I was ready to turn away from myself, to not look back. I was open to Him.
He spoke.
He told me that it was OK. He said that because I thrist for righteousness,I shall receive it. He also said that the walk about is coming soon.


A vision:

A quickening in my heart as silence creates a stir of echoes. I look towards the sun, the light catching rainbows in my sunglasses. A small draft moves a strand of my hair and flows through my beard as I close my eyes and see the task ahead. My body vibrates, reflecting the bumps the Greyhound bus hits along it's sojourn.
I sigh.


I look through cards of solem farewells and new beginnings. Cards from friends whose faces, sadly, I've almost forgotton; and family, who came to honor my grandmother's request and see another ignorant child shoved into the real world.
I get to my class picture. You know, the one where we're all lined up in our gowns, smiling like the world is in our hands. I can remember all of ther names, except one.
I close it and move on to The Document. That one document that for twelce years I endured to receive, and now to me it's just a simple peice of paper, signed by a man who is now dead.
I sigh as I close it, painful memories rushing back.
                  A vision, a metaphor:
     A sea of faces meet my every word.  I'm alone in a crowd, solo in a global organism.  I melt away, agony screaming in my ears.
     I look out through the glass, seeing houses, churches, buildings, and I marvel at the stories that these people hold.  I can't hear them, but they're there.  The living picture moves to the countryside, where the snow-covered hills and fields  are dimly lit.  I don't know where the light comes from, but  I can see every tree as clear as day.
     And slowly, softly, I fall asleep, dreaming of a couch, a woman, a soft blanket, and a sigh of contentment.
     I look in the sky and watch a snow fall in a blizzard of white.  It looks like the stars falling from the Heaven.  I close my eyes and let the icy flakes brick my face in frosty fury.  I smile and remember days of old.
     The western horison glows in deep shades of purple and blue as the sun cradles it's self in it's evening home.  the wind, spring-like in warmth, blows over the suberbanesque landscape, bringing the smell of moisture and a hint of life.  I look up to see a half-moon illuminating the complex sculpture Yahweh is creating with His hands.  It's a song, with the stars playing the tune to the ballet of Creation.  I smile at it's complex yet simple design.  Hallelu Ya.
     Every star shone in the canopy of black, my breath reflected on the cliffs across the river.  I take a breath and slowly start the sorrowfull aria.  the singer in the cliffs reflects each tone half a second after it reaches the world.  It ends in a deep tone, and the silence envelopes myself again.
     I remember being a small, skinney kid, sitting by my grandma's old radio, smelling the smell of history.  I played with my toys in the light of a single lamp.  The scent will last forever
     I write this, sitting on a bench in the town square.  The moist wind threatens rain and is scented with the aroma of the hills.  I take a deep breath and thunder rolls in the distance.  The buildings, antique and crumbling, surround the city's new courthouse, much like elderly pagans around a new idol.
     My mind gets to thinking again, remembering how I used to be before the Change.  I I had not changed, my taste for things would be totally different. My brother's and I were given an X-Box today, and while they were estatic, I looked at it and thought of how silly it seemed to be excited about a mere Thing.  In the mean time, the sprinkles signal rain, and I must leave.
     I stop, pausing a moment in the early hours of a morning not  yet born.  I remember things, bits of my past that bring forth a nostalgia not sorely missed.  Now an adult, I go over my past with eyes of a new found wisdom.  Such memories nearly bring tears.  People I've loved, cared for, longed for, prayed for, all gone.  They've sunken into the cisturn of my memeory, from whose bittersweet waters come the images of a time forgotten.
     I lookinto those waters with regret, longing to go back and change the stupid and foolish acts I comitted.  My comforts are such: God is never-failing and my future can be lived without regret.
     For this moment, I have hope.

I'm sitting in the passenger seat of her Bronco, dressed in jeans, t-shirt, boots, and my Duster.  My hand is on her thigh as she drives.  Her brother is in the back seat, jabbering away as I watch the expanse of a Kansas landscape.  A song plays in my ears, and I sigh, content at the simplicity that I feel will soon depart.
I sit in those same clothes, this time alone in darkness.  I stare out the window, seeing dark dtrees and bushes rush by at the edge of the bus' headlights.  I wished she were with me.  I loved her then, before her scent changed.  I was going to marry her, and sitting alone on that bus affirmed that promise.
I tire of witnessing human decodence.  Everywhere I go I see it.  It makes me angry and sad, all at once.  I can't even hide from it in my own house.
I just want to weep bitterly.  I want to cry for every man, woman, and child  who wuffers degradation at the hands of their fellow humans.  This all reminds me that man is truly at war with God.  IS THERE NOTHING SACRED ANYMORE?
No.  Honor is dead, chivalry, too.  Loving your neighbor is a myth, muttered by old men and women.  Love is replaced with lust, and a virgin has no more pride.  worst of all, our children are no longer safe, even within their own families.
Yes, Hell is a logical place, and I'm joyfull to be saved from it; but I cry to see those who are not.  Oh, that bittersweet turth and reality.  Oft'n times I almost look back, wishing I still lived in the illusion.
 In the sultry night air memories float in the confines of my mind.  Not even the mosquito's bite can suck them away.  A song of war fills my mind as I slap each of the blood suckers.  I wish for more exciting days.
The sun was hot and the wind was pleasant.  People moved arounde me as I walked, brushing the blue poncho I purchaced earlier to stave off the now absent rain.  My ankles were sore from walking all day, and my feet hurt from the ill-fitting shoes.  I could feel and hear the low rumble of roller cars moving swiftly along their elevated tracks.  I smiled, making it a point to etch it forever in the recesses of my memory.