mountain during golden hour

The Past Can’t Go With Me

That night, she covered her ears to stifle the sounds of oppression

It was blaring, forming cracks in her bedroom window

It was blinding, fogging the glass and creating a coffin-like view—nothingness

The air felt like it was being adopted into the stench of something unexplainable

It was something dark, of the Past

It was left behind, but it didn’t like that.

It wanted in, wanted to be remembered, Consumed, moulded—moulded into the fabric of the Present.

She feared its strength had been renewed

She feared it would deceitfully transform into something familiar, and skilfully lodge itself on the bookshelf like an elf

It peered through the window at her, promising to devour her unborn tribe, ambush her story, and cripple her dreams

This was a combo pack of nightmares—cheap, unwanted, and most certainly undeserved.

Its ruthlessness was undeniable, and she started to question its origin: “Where did it plant its seed?”

Without words, it said:

I am secretly nurtured

I have already conquered millions of forgotten souls

I have deemed a whole race untouchable

I have ridden on the backs of the masters and whispered sweet poison into their ears

I have sat, keeping watch over their delicate eggs, and have raised these offsprings to be most vile

I have driven the strongest men to madness

And the smartest women to scorn

I am what they can’t contain.

The air got cold and dry. Her breathing was laboured as she stared into its darkness repeating:“Where did it plant its seed?”

It came with Them: the men from far and wide who had ventured to an undisturbed place

These same men prospered from the Land’s promise, and left her ancestors to toil the blood-soaked soil.

She opened her eyes as she mouthed the words: “The Past can’t go with me”.

About the author
I like orange juice with pulp. Follow Kara on Instagram or read more articles from Kara on Thought Catalog.

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