Often times the past tugs at me. If I could give the past a name I would. I suspect it’s a female. Yes, the past comes in the form of a woman of strength. A women whose emotions wave and fold like the ocean. I try to escape her, I run, to open a door just to see her standing before me. Her skin pale, her eyes round. “Don’t take me I beg her”. She smiles at me wickedly and tormenting , Lifts her hand and presses two fingers between my eyes. Suddenly I am falling backwards, down and down I go. I don’t fight it, because its inevitable. The familiar cold water welcomes my body. Further down I sink, until I see swirls of pink and purple. The colors slowly swirling with the dark water. I am here. I am in the past. I hear her laughter as she initiates the first memory.
