Time will ask me to give them up, to free me from the holding to them. To allow me to come across the new. I desire the novel, always the new and the recurrence of things I have had before is like a surprise. The recalled memory of being in a room that I forgot I was in but that I am transported to in an instant, picking up the artifact, the figurine, the thing that is a connection to that past. Time is a line, but memory is a miasma. I am so trapped in vapor. It is present, but try to touch it an evanescence makes it evaporate and form elsewhere. Such is memory. Even the last line is a memory now, only thru recollection does any of this word and sentence and paragraph make any sense. Time is so much what we live for. And time is stretched into meaningless moments. Driving, talking to people in disparate places, we live for the moments that tell us we were here, the things that remind us of where we have been and the horizon lines that tell us where we are going.
Posted on: Thu, 25 Jul 2013 00:07:54 +0000
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