And a Memory…
Thoughts swirl like sifted sand in the wind, taking flight and then stinging as they alight on sensitive skin, thrust with daggers’ force, piercing beneath the protective mask; through the guise donned for defense, my soul rent.
And the pieces of a moment collide with their stronger and weaker members and become one solitary catch in the round of time. The space between the parts of this individual can expand to encompass all thought and eternity. They already have and do. The part of the instance that comes before full realization, understanding, or acceptance came after an equal instance of ignorance, disbelief, or non-understanding and is followed by the later part or piece of the whole moment that is sweet, or haunting, or anything between the myriad selves.
The points meet, and cross, and bend, and blend, and become one within their many convoluted selves. They are thoughts and they know no boundaries, and they bleed into one perpetual, eternal thought; the twisting and upbraiding, reflecting, and re-announcing of their sundry selves; constant recriminations, judgments, appraisals, and evaluations. They depart from one another and then rekindle at the thoughts of their absence from one another. They re-kindred themselves with their many offspring and related trains and inklings of thought. Finally harbored, anchored, and re-opened, like cases of misplaced stowage from some dis-remembered stronghold, with trepidation they are opened, for we have forgotten their contents; we have intentionally misplaced the packing lists and are amazed in terror at the findings when they are revealed.
What more have we than the things that have bred in our minds after our long existences, after the many lives that we have lived in this one lifetime, and what more can we expect from ourselves? Many secrets, and how oft revealed? How do we find ourselves in those secreted fields, those long unturned acres of hidden thoughts and happenings? We are but lonely. We are so very isolated in the thoughts for they must remain hidden; they must remain ours alone, for what damage may ensue at their unveiling? What is lonely like there, inside those darkened corridors of our thoughts? Is it enough to drive us to a snapping, crazy, psychotic unburdening in a rage of shouted words and incoherent ramblings? Do we go stir-crazy in our own self-reflection, having sequestered ourselves for so long inside the caverns of our own construction and device? Do our hidden solitary and several selves meet anew in those reflections and remembrances of things lived and done? Do they question and validate and curse again the disparate happenings and thoughts and things that made them what and who they are, things marked alone and troubled sore?
And then to remember…how does it happen? How does the circuitry respond to the stimuli and recapture the images that were sealed in their compartments and grottoes and then revivify them into the hybridizations of valid recurrences of what once was? How are they tainted with the non-truths that permeate their warped selves? Our guilt, and desires, and wishes, and sorrows, and unfulfilled yearnings so misconstrue the pictures that it would be nigh unto impossible to see the events as they really happened. Then we mix with our own perceived recollections, the stories and memories of the other participants or on-lookers with their biases, and convictions, and wishes, and unlived dreams…and there will never be truth in the vivid snapshots that we think we remember storing away in the albums of our minds.