Weep not for the memories

Do you ever relive memories? I do. Constantly. With as graphic an imagination as I have, it’s a bit more intense than a flash back. Sometimes they can be good, fun even, like when I recall some shenanigan with my friends or when I first heard a good joke. Usually, though, it’s something embarrassing that I would rather never remember until the end of my days. It’s always something mundane that triggers it, and object or a sound. Sometimes it’s nothing at all, the memory just works its way from the inner most reaches of my mind to the forefront, like an obnoxious patron bustling its way to the front of the line, busting onto the scene like a diva. I begin to experience the memory with pain, physically cringe at the recollection, moan in pain and frustration, mutter the words that could have altered the situation in my favor. (This becomes a little awkward if I’m in public or other people happen to be around.) Rapidly, every detail of the experience will come rushing back to me. The episode will then play over and over in my head like a scratched record. It takes a little while for the memories to die down, and just when I think I’ve put them back in their rightful place, they pop back up for the rest of the day.
Skeletons in my closet are one thing, but these phantoms in my brain will never be exercised.