Cycle of oh’s as a point of remembering, just out of my mind’s reach. I grasp at loose associations hoping that my mind becomes clear, but nothing sticks. Patterns. I like patterns. Fourteen steps then a left everyday at 3:15, I reach my thinking space. I say thinking but really it’s like a song stuck in my head and all I can remember is the melody. A faint whisper of something that I once knew. It’s close enough to sound out, but no words can be formed. I know if I can only remember the first word, then the rest will sure to follow. And if I can give my mind relief from fried circuits, then I can be happy. However, happiness dwells in the soul but I can’t remember that. Was that the thing I am desperately trying to put to words, happiness? No flood of remembrance; no unhinging of the gates to release the pressure built up for so long. No that mustn’t be why my brain is on repeat. Patterns. I like patterns. Fourteen steps then a left everyday at 3:15, I reach my thinking space. I attempt to think of all the things I haven’t thought of, which is more difficult than it sounds. With each thought a flashbulb memories races across my mental space. Just long enough to recognize it but not to place its origin. As a result of my mind taking turns and detours without my approval, I give an Oh. As a way to prompt a stop on that thought because well I can almost place it. It creates a cycle of oh’s as a point of remembering, just out of my mind’s reach. Just brushing the fingertips to prove that it exists. All I really want is to hold it firm and give it a good handshake and say, “It’s very nice to meet you. I’ve been searching for you for so long now.” Unfortunately, I do not think that will ever take place. I feel lost in the vacuum of deep space. The stars are visible, but displaced. Somewhat distorted and faded. I have never felt so alone. When the people here talk to me, they act as if I cannot understand them. However, the reality is that they are so distracting. I simply ignore them. Everyday I concentrate on the cycle, like a washer machine. I Stare into my mind and watch the violent crashes of ideas and memories. This brainwash caused my thoughts to be jumbled upon a squeaky clean wall. Given I know this won’t help me remember, but that’s all I know to do. I can only get close enough to sense it; sense that it’s familiar like a friend, but the cycle consumes those feelings and then restarts again, and again, and again, and again. Patterns. I like patterns. Fourteen steps then a left at 3:15 everyday, I reach my thinking space. Such a quiet place, and I need that, so I can focus on the deafening volume in my head. I’ve grown accustomed to this way of life because to truly live one must be always searching. Always trying to improve, and that’s why I get so upset. There are no solutions to my problem, and only the answer to this riddle will end my heartache. I just want to be happy. Happiness dwells in the soul but I can’t remember that.