A house in Ruin

I wish I had a mindpalace. I would fill it with such things. As of yet I just have files. Memories and words cataloged and sorted. What happened and what did not sorted into discrete piles. I do not fill in the gaps and imagine the things yet to come. I grab what I can in short bursts vivid and solid. Like a computer - store things in directories and sub-directories. But the nice things have gone and I sit back in the dark swamp. For what I absorb I retain and do soak in. I sit in a pile of piles. Down the plughole of the universe where ideas of shapes do both burn and collect dust. I am a walking wreck that does carry on through willpower alone. I would unburden myself but then my life would carry no weight. For my mind does argue with itself and spark against breath itself. But this tilling of the synapses does produce much rich soil and the turning over an idea does make much yeast for bread. I would be the Job of the mind and have no comforters.