Freedom (1)

Memory stared her in the face. Just like it had done thousands of
times before. Memory was a blank, white wall. Only, it wasn't blank for
her.
She watched as it's perfection died a slow, agonizing death. She was
making herself free. By the laws of nature, everything happened the way
it should. Only that way. Trying slowly lost it's touch, so she quit
trying. She just did. She no longer cared what others thought. It was
obvious they didn't care. Now, she had to live for herself and that was
it. Nobody else would live for her. Tomorrow would never come. The only
thing she had to live for was the hope that her memories would leave
her mind and appear, somehow, on that blank white wall.
She carefully reached around behind her and grasped the brush. Dipping
it in a blood red paint. Stroke, stroke, stroke.
Her memories were dying.
She falsified the red with another color, on the same brush. Life
doesn't let you wash it out, she thought.
Black now marred the imperfection of the wall. This was all she ever
wanted to do. This was all she lived for. Freedom is a beautiful
thing.
Now, she was forcing herself to continue. The memories were just too
strong. Still, she drove on to her destination. Slap, slap, slap. The
brush continued it's ritualistic movments of the past. Everything she
did now was an expression. Nothing else seemed to matter in her
life.
When she looked in the mirror, she saw her perfect white wall.
It wasn't perfect anymore.
She had never tried this before. She still wasn't trying.
She was doing.
Trying never got anybody any further than that, she thought. People
only succeeded by forgetting to try, and just doing.
This time, she didn't use the brush; only her fingers touched the
life-liquid. The cold caress of it running over her hands and onto her
arms. The feeling of it flooding her veins and taking control of her
mind, letting go of what she needed to. This was what she lived for.
The peace that was coming was unacceptable.
She didn't want peace. Peace had never stayed before.
She pressed her hand firmly against what was now beautiful. Everything
about her, everything not about her, and everything she never wanted to
forget or remember traced the muscles in her arm, down her fingers, and
onto her canvas. Not anybody else's canvas. Only her canvas. She
watched as the hand, that she knew in her head was hers, but for some
reason her heart couldn't' believe it, writhe in it's pain; the pain
separated itself from the forgetfulness.
The unmistakable pattern of her past began to appear.
She pulled her hand away. She couldn't deal with that.
She pointed her finger and drew furiously in the air, letting the paint
drip off onto the wall. Now she was realizing what she was here for.
She was here to know; this was truly knowing. She no longer had to be
satisfied with the life that fate had handed her.
Her hand dropped with a thud as it hit the table.
She stood in awe at what had just happened.
She was free. She was free.
That's all that mattered now...