Irritation

For hours on hours I have nothing to do but sit, think, and remember what little fragments of memories I still have. I can remember the sight of the grass that filled our courtyard. Yet, when I try to remember the felling of the grass I am haunted by the realization that I can not remember it. The feelings of touch that surround me are all harsh and painful. The dirt is harsh and cold. The walls are cold and rough. But the worst part is the hay. It is old and musky. It burns my skin and rips away. Over and over again it repeats its job of irritation. It has never once been changed.