Chains Forged in Life

Dickens was on to something; these chains were forged alone. Not of greed, nor malice but of guilt and regret. Feel their weight, the tension that grows as distance temporal increases between smith and incident inciting. With every movement, they chime and clang, beckoning the mind back; it cries, it yearns to return, yearns to unmake the maker.

 

Crafted from memories, impulses within the brain, they lack mass but not weight. From the mind they extend, a cord that spirals down the spine, shackling its hostage. The longer they're carried, the heavier they become, as the body atrophies around them; constricting vines scar the flesh, invisible to all but the gardener. 

 

Begging. The chains they call to return; they serve a constant reminder, a call back to the moment they were created. Forged not of steel nor any material tangible, they exist in fluidity, whispering retellings of the big bang indefinitely; from the moment of their creation, the story recited, each time new details added or lost. As their weight grows, so too do the chains strengthen. Memories mutate, devolve, consolidate; stripped bare of forgotten context and useless minutiae. Sustained on fear, on strength, the cycle continues.

 

As time progresses, as everyone does, the chains do fluctuate: at times forgotten, trailing behind, until snagged reminders force them to forefront. Once made, they cannot be undone but they are flexible enough to reshape; chains when woven together, maille to keep one safe. Though the weight still persists, in new form it wears easier; Marley of the mind may rest for now.