Memory breathes, claiming a life of its own it breathes reminding me of how little I control it breathes, pulling the past forward in the most pertinent way, to recollect all I did and didn’t say. Olfaction the oxygen memory inhales to walk down the lane of reminiscent tales, Where I stayed in reality in pleasure and in pain, now breathing little reminders of progress in my brain. Memory breathes, to pepper my ordinary life, with moments of meaning between all the strife. Memory breathes, in the middle of a regular day. It needs to breathe, it has no other way.