The Pensieve

Sometimes I wish I was Albus Dumbledore. I wonder how it would have felt pulling out those white silvery memories from my head and putting them into the pensieve….only to live those moments again at a less busy time.

Or would I?

It is probably a damp forest out here. The dark sky has a distant whitish hue which some might discard as the moon. The silence of night is brutally murdered by the fierce wind that is blowing through. The leaves are probably warning about the tempest that is arriving. They anyway are probably the only things moving tonight.

Or are they?

I am escaping them. They are probably the most ferocious of wolves, running after me, with the deadliest of fangs that somehow look voracious in the silvery night. They don’t need excuses. They need blood. Anyone’s blood…..and today it’s probably me. But I’m running. I’ll elude them.

Or would I?

I stumbled. And I can feel their fangs piercing my naked chest. I can smell my own blood and now their fangs are red with my tissue. Their unforgiving eyes know no excuse, no reason to set me free. And I have no option, but to surrender….to life…. It’s hurting and it’s hurting real bad.

Or is it?

Relax! It’s nothing. It probably just belongs to the pensieve.

Or does it?