“There is a madness, not simply within the thing one has witnessed, though with the reaction to it, and then, the scarring. We remember, even when we close our eyes to no longer look upon the traumatizing sight.
I am unable to offer back what I have seen, in this world, for my empathy runs too great, far too great, to ever want to un-see everything that is engendered in my mind. Such memories are tomes, and I am unable to return them to their library. It is because I am the library. Their pages are merely looked upon whenever I release them from whatever confinement encased them.
I have a madness in knowing, and so, there is an insatiable craving to keep these memories, close and near, for me to hear them when they whisper. There was a madness in what I’ve seen, so as to know exactly what I’ve memorized, to know that it still exists, upon this withered world.
Everything that I’ve seen, I cannot return to its original carrier. Everything that I know, I cannot simply bury to forget, for that brings pain.
A memory buried, is a memory that will sting beneath the surface, like some parasite that has burrowed itself beneath the skin, and now begins to create a sickness. For that sickness, is the pain I describe.
Those memories are loud, and will not stop screaming in the basement I have stored them.”