One-Hundred Days

I stare at the piles in front of me, one large and one small.
I work my way through the larger one, the one that is nearly as tall as my five feet. I let my eyes read over each and every page, let my hands work with the edges and creases, folding them over and over again until the fit against the members of the small tower climbing towards the ceiling.

I focus only on the papers in front of me, marking and slashing through word after word, re-writing between the margins. I scribble across every single sheet, scrawling "x" after "x" on each line.

It doesn't quite matter to my mind that I am switching from paper to paper, memory to memory. The empty journal sits beside me, empty and forlorn with each and every page ripped from its broken spine. I move it into my lap as I scrawl over each memory presented on the pages in front of me.

I keep my mind on the multitudes of papers set in front of me. I multitask, keep my hands and mind busy in hopes of a moment of clarity. I fill my mind with the memories flooding over each page. I empty them from every cavern and empty space, marking their erased state with a red "x" across the entire page.

I sit before two piles, one small, one large and keep my hands and mind busy, if only for the sake of not ever having to think of you again.
I multitask to the end to erase you from my mind.