Corridors of My Mind

In my mind I’m a fighter, through my heart, I’m a writer. Let me take you to the corridors of my mind — through the twisting, twirling, corresponding hallways in my thoughts. You’ll hear the rumors and whispers bounce off these musty walls as we approach an old, cracked door. With an echoing whine, the door creaks open. Inside of it, the walls are splashed blue and white, the ground green and a silhouette of an old house building is seen in the background. The faint scent of gingerbread burns warm in the air. Stepping inside of the door, you begin to approach the house. A chalky snow mists around the building and sweeps across the pavement as the house begins to come into focus; a single lit window stands out. You see figures and shadows moving inside of the window and, as you approach it, you make out a small family gathered around a table.

Assortments of food, beverage, fruits and delicate desserts lay spread out over the table. Incoherent chattering comes from the figures as they throw their heads back in laughter, stuffing the blueberry pies, seven layer bars, brownies and cakes into their faces. The adults and kids are seen at separate tables — the kids seated at a small, plastic table piled with desserts. The kids laugh and play, telling each other jokes and exchange glances with the adults who sat with their beers and wine, telling their own jokes and stories. As you gaze upon such a blissful event, you notice odd, contorted shadows in each corners of the house. The shadows crept up the wall like small demons, jumping from wall to ceiling as they inch their way closer to the family.

As you watch the shadows, you feel a heavy weight press down onto your chest, accompanied by an overwhelming sadness. The walls around you dim to a blood-red, the ground black, and the memory stained. You feel the emotions of hatred and anger start to course through your body as you glower at the shadows in their attempt to corrupt such a blissful and irrelevant memory. You look around for the door from which you came, fearing the sudden darkness is gripping you too tightly. You spin around as the growing sound of footsteps and clanging metal is heard from behind you; a dim light shines feebly from the horizon. The soldiers march their way down toward the shadows. You stare slightly, curious, as you notice each soldier wields a small torch in place of their sword. You feel an obligation to leave before they come, and you trudge your way out of the open door — leaving with nothing but a memory, careful as to not leave a single footstep as you walk back through the corridors of my brain.


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