Memory Blocks

From the shadow of the sunshine’s silver reflection rises a cloud of smoke. The smell of it is the echo of the vanilla mornings when sunshine means sweet fruit and freedom from everything, but not for anything. Its sticky threads spread beyond the web they knit as they reach out with each inhale of a stranger indulging oneself in the olfactory surprise. Through the shades of the houses lining the empty streets, the vanilla smoke cloud is drifting from one to another stranger’s inhale. With an exhale, the threads tickle the air as they keep spreading. Knitting the web whose delicate smile overarches the kingdom of the sylvan souls’ inhales & exhales. Sylvan smiles. Cloud of smoke. Rubbing the walls of the houses lining the streets of endless play. When sunshine means sweet fruit and freedom from everything, but not for anything. When sweet fruit means unquestionable comfort. And the courage to feel it.

So meandering are my thoughts on Sundays when memory’s caprice blocks my way to the dream I always have on Sunday. I can smell my thoughts. They are a far cry of the experience I typically have on Sunday.

Movements like whispers of the cloud as it emits the warmth of the cookie-evoking  scent. Crawling…kneeling…lying…swimming through one’s own breath. Looking at each window as it passes by. None of them reflects the color of the dream sought, missed, eluding.  Capricious memory.  Makes my pores exude a cornucopia of unruly botany. Symbolic knows no classification. Sucking the cloud of smoke into a scar dried by the breeze so gentle that no memory can extract from it the dream innate to it.

So disturbing are my movements to me when I miss being told stories within the dream I always have on Sunday.  I imagine that I was born aeons ago, hoping that such a fantasy could trigger and reanimate the dream  made inaccessible to me by a sheer whimsicality of fucking memory. All it does is reaffirm the fact that I was, actually, born yesterday. Like fuck!  Almost just like my grandma. Fucking shit!

Shadow like its own shadow. Smoke like the smoke filling the cloud like the cloud like a sinuous curvy bastard like the bastardness like the cyborg-styling laser. Cutting the fog between the moments when the dream I always have on Sunday can be resumed. Between those moments, the fog blurs the memory of the previous oneiric indulgence and obstructs a possibility of the next one. At the same time, its erratic powers inflict a deceptive sense of the dream I always have on Sundays being a succession of discontinuous experiences. Which is only to say that it is not.

Cookie-evoking scent like its own memory of itself when sunshine means sweet fruit and freedom from everything, but not for anything. Those tormenting memory blocks for  a moment make me think that grandma is a shadow of my failed fantasies. A dream from a story about a cloud in its own shade, licking its dry scars and devouring the floral outburst from its own smell:

You know that Abrëville is my middle name!

Fuckingshitgrandmawhadafuck!!!

Grandma’s laughing her ass off:

You think if the phone is not ringing there’s nothing else not to answer, huh?

Likefuckingshitgrandmafuckingfuck!!!

You don’t have to remember in order to have the dream you always have on Sunday.

Grandmalikefuckshitfuckshit!!!

Tell me about the cloud that smells like sunshine.

I thought I forgot how to talk about it.

You know blocks are subject to the spelling bee alterations.

Likefuckfuckfuck!!!

So, do you still think you forgot how to tell me about the windows with no laser reflection to warm one’s heart until the quixotic interregnum reveals its shameful identity of conceptual confusion?

NO!

Will you then kindly pull yourself 2-fucking-gether and come to your fucking senses, as our favorite book says!

YES!

Like my tears dug out from the piles of fog. mytearsyoudrinkwhenicannotfindyou. My tears sucked into the dried scars. Dripping deep into the inner pools. Laser stash. Fog-cutting laser. Conceptual confusion dismantler. Like the dream one always has on Sunday.