Nonexistence.

(Forgive the language, I'm writing this at a moment when I can't handle my emotions, sentiments or my tear ducts.)

I am baffled while I battle this crisis.
It is more of a breakdown of a life situation into a crisis. 
I am running away from this conclusion that I have come to.

Life is nothing but blocks of moments which are nothingness once the moment has passed.
Think of it, once a moment has passed, it is nonexistent. It only lives on if you think of it. The anticipation that surrounds an event in the future becomes nothing once the event has passed, that event, becomes nothing. It is all, nothing.

Memories are such an abstract entity and at this moment, it is making me cry that memories are all we have and how do I keep my memories, how do I feel they were real? How do I hold them with my feeble hands, how do I stop them from slipping and falling out. Please stop memories, please don't go, please stay, please become more real than just a cloud of thought in my head.

I'm in pain right now. Miserable amounts of pain thinking about how desperately I want my mind to stop pick up each memory and sink into it all over again. And I can't, the helplessness that has covered me all over because I can not go back, is mind numbing right now.

Our lives are nothing but a collection of memories.
Should I be happy that they've passed and there might be better memories in the future or should I be sad that they're in the past and they're never coming back again?

She undid her bun. She undid her bun.

It was an unusual obsession,
Something you wouldn't realise till it was pointed out.
Her bun.
Her locks were evasive, while they stayed in that bun.
Black, brown or orange.
No one ever found out.
It seemed fairly normal,
like a sweater made of yarn,
That her hair was never open,
but always in that bun.
"Damned bun!" He thought,
Dreamed each night of black molten lava pouring and gracing her shoulders, if she ever undid her bun.
Her reasons were misleading,
The sweltering heat, she said
But only she knew the bun was,
Where she hid her hurt instead.
The bun held all the stories, she hadn't spoken about.
The bun held all the fury, she had never let out.
The bun held all the pain, that peirced through her pores.
The bun held all the sorrows, that on her heart had left sores. 
The bun held all the failed dreams, like pollen in a dandelion.
The fear of being found out, the fear of being discovered
And her hair never left the bun.
And then one day she thought, she could undo the bun for him,
Facing him she stood, gathering all her courage,
Closed her eyes because this,
Would feel like pulling a molar out with callipers without any anaesthesia.
She felt something loosen, a wall break down,
The dam had been broken & the water came swirling out.
But her hands hadn't moved, hadn't even touched the bun;
Aghast,
She opened her eyes and saw the satisfaction written on his visage.

He had only tugged at the stick holding her bun.