 |
| Photo retrieved @ http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/the-persistence-of-memory |
Projected memories have this smooth silky coating that
allows them to float around carried away by the wings of a vivid imagination.
It’s time to look back on the past and sort through what it truly held and what
projected in the previous “past”, as if we are awarded several “pasts”, that we
are free to chunk up according to our will. Or wits. But it’s true, we have
that ability but we probably ignore it for most instances. I don’t know if I
should dare look back on my high school years and try to recall those
instances when I indulged myself in the sweet memory of a rosy future, or of a
different future.
I might not have had the world my feet, but in my Cinderella clothes I dreamed. I dreamed of other days and somehow that projection carried me away in a depersonalized me, a me that had little to do with the past or present, cause in dreams you simply have the ability to do so. I know such a projection has little value, but in my emotional geography stakes are high. There was an instant of my being that was dedicated to that faraway future and discarding it would mean discarding a part of myself. What kind of future, and what lie ahead of it, is of little importance to the reader, for the treasures of my soul are treasures to myself solely. My riches are your rags.
I might not have had the world my feet, but in my Cinderella clothes I dreamed. I dreamed of other days and somehow that projection carried me away in a depersonalized me, a me that had little to do with the past or present, cause in dreams you simply have the ability to do so. I know such a projection has little value, but in my emotional geography stakes are high. There was an instant of my being that was dedicated to that faraway future and discarding it would mean discarding a part of myself. What kind of future, and what lie ahead of it, is of little importance to the reader, for the treasures of my soul are treasures to myself solely. My riches are your rags.
But from afar lurks the sense that this recollection of
memories is a brush up of those forgotten corners of the heart, in which the
protruding light of consciousness failed to shine on. But it feels good to dust
off those old fragments of thought, like frozen tokens of time, shaded by the
passage of time. Just because sometimes you have to give little things a grand
time. We've only been assigned a one-chamber life and inside those four walls,
time piles memories high, sometimes orderly, other times in a beautiful chaos.
And in the sweat of my temples, I seek the forgotten ones; I sift through them
hoping to reconstruct a puzzle that has neither a beginning nor an end.
Interesting :)
ReplyDelete