If my mind is an illness, then my veins are a bundle of unwanted *******, pulsating around deadly oil that smothers the wildlife in a layer of ink. And it follows that my memories are muddled in the soil, formed into mole hills that trip the child as it runs through a field;
In that case, the antidote is a tear shaped raindrop which feeds the plants, almost as well as the eye that sheds it feeds the cheek. And that eye will water many plants. It is salt in their roots, and they will wither and die from the excess eventually.