My thoughts, they play with me. The mind follows and invents memories — overlapping over sanity as I scramble for truth. My nose picks up the scent of cut grass under the noontime sun. The smell retains that buzzing sound which soothes my aching head.
My memories, unreliable. My mind then invents memories — I struggle to reassemble chunks of details left on the floorboard of my head. There is an escape hatch somewhere over the wooden horizon. My nose picks up the scent of the afternoon, dry and immediate.
“We need narratives because each person being born was once a completely lost hero.” [Pascal Quignard, The Silent Crossing (trans. Chris Turner)]