Tuesday, June 24, 2008


I have built a little room for bottled memories in the back of my mind. The walls are covered with mahogany shelves and cupboards, filled with tiny colourful bottles, some sealed more firmly than the others. They have all labels on them, names written in handwriting, instructions for future usage, sometimes skulls with leg bones.

I enter the room, arms filled with freshly bottled memories. One of them is a especially beautiful piece. It's blue, old, with a thin neck and the top is cork. Faintly my eyes recognise moving characters inside the glass. Suppressed mutter reach my ears. The bottle is very fresh, so fresh, that the memories inside of it make me forget to breathe for awhile, a false sense of someone ebracing me. With a blink of an eye I'm back in the room, scattered and shivering.

I put the other bottles from my arms on a small table by the window. I get a key from my pocket and open one of the cupboards. The shelves are already filled with bottles with different sizes and colours. Faint humming is ringing out of them as the memories are so strong, that they almost break out of the glass that binds them inside their prisons. I place the blue one next to them and close the cupboard. Other bottles from the table quickly find their places all around the room. There is no chronological order, so that only I can find the right order, which goes where, what happened when, who said what and why. In this way some bottles can be lost for years.

I turn back at the door and take a glance around the room. The window sheds little light, almost none. Night is falling.

I close the mahogany door behind me and walk away.

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