A Soldier Without Orders

Several small, disorganized stacks of poorly-labled files lay on the floor near the foot of a worn couch.

Fragmented memories throw themselves from an old projector onto the discolored pull-down screen across the dusty, dimly-lit room.

It displays confusing, misplaced images and video-like clips lasting anywhere between two and six seconds each.

I know I cannot pinpoint many of these memories to any particular time in my life.

I somehow found those while sifting through the many dusty file folders in the library next door to the projection room.

Some of those memories which I found in old, unmarked files, radiate gentle warmth as they slide their way onto that discolored screen.

Most others, however, bring about seering, piercing hot pain, causing me to physically flinch as they frequently intrude onto the face of the screen.

As I sit on the worn couch, taking stock of the files in my hands and the ones lying on the dust-covered rug at my feet, the projector occasionally begins to throw seemingly-random, disturbing images onto the screen before me.

Whenever this happens, I can sometimes react fast enough to escape from the projection room in time so that I can hide in some of the happier, slightly more organized sections of my library.

If I don't get out fast enough, I find that by the time I reach the door leading to the safety of the library, the door has somehow been locked, and I am forced to watch the onslaught of horrific images and endure the white hot pain burning into my very being.

Eventually, after the images fade and only the dim light of the room remains, I'll carefully pick myself and the disorganized files up off of the floor.

Numb, I carry them through the mysteriously unlocked doorway back into the library where I simply place the stack on a random shelf and leave it so I can go hide away in the creativity section of the library.

The creativity section is where I spend most of my time. There, I have a large, well-lit, wooden desk with different canvasses and mediums on top of it. Despite having so many creative options to choose from, I usually just doodle with pencil and paper.

I recognize that I can't live solely based on creativity, however; I mean, for someone to begin to truly live and grow as an individual, they have to gain self-awareness through personal reflection. I'm twenty-seven, now- I assume most people my age would have already began their own process of personal and individual growth.

So, I know I have to continue to dig deep and go through those unmarked files in the sections that are unorganized so I can begin to understand myself better... even if it means facing the pain and horrors my presense seems to bring to the projection room.

I become increasingly brave as time goes on, and as I do this, I find that I am able to spend more and more time in that room without the pain becoming too unbearable.

Going through this process is mentally, emotionally and physically painful and exhausting.

However, I have to keep trying to remember my past, no matter how difficult...

I just have to remember...

(Next chapter coming very soon, so stay tuned!)