Memory is a fickle thing. We want to rely on our brains to retain information, occasions, feelings, people and their names and their stories and everything that interaction with the world entails. We drift from one day to the next with words and flickers of images latching onto our mind the way plastic bags cling onto barbered wires. There, but always swaying with the wind, threatening to detach. Some stay and some depart, and there’s no pattern or rule to it. Our emotions deform them and our growth morphs them, and we still find a way to tell the story somehow. Certainty is an illusion because none of our memories are facts. But if we give into that, then how would we ever have anything to dwell on?
I’d like to think there’s a place in my brain where all my lost memories go. Where the names attached to faces that occasionally pop into my dreams rest, and all meanings of words that I’ve learned and forgotten drift, and where all the stories I read find a shelf. Perhaps this is the well from which writers dig up their narratives, because what is literature if not separate fractals of the world around us that we stitch together. Because when we face a blank page with the intention of tainting it with our knowledge, our history, we give way to parts of ourselves that we don’t put on display while we’re amongst others. We find inspiration there and when we’re done, we just leave it put until needed again. We get lost, let pages write themselves, and come back a few days later wondering where all that has come from.
As for things with dubious origin… I had a conversation recently where I told a story, recited a memory, then sat there and wondered aloud about when it had happened. When I couldn’t place it anywhere on my wonky timeline, I began to wonder, again out loud, if this was perhaps one of the more vivid dreams I’ve had. I got scared because what if half the stories I tell are just dreams that recur so often that I identify with them as memories of my own? What if my love for all stories and my deep desire for storing as many of them as possible has disabled my brain from identifying that thin line between what is mine through physical experience and what is mine through mindful dreaming and literary exploits?
I let my mind wander at night and each memory gently tugs me over to another. It’s like a a small neighborhood where I take various rights and lefts and find myself back at the centre, wondering how I’ve gone so far off track to begin with.
Perhaps I’m a collector. A collector of books, of memories, of knowledge. I’m bits and pieces all over the place with loose roots and hazy timelines and perhaps I even enjoy it.
Hello! Recently, I’ve reread Never Let Me Go by Kazou Ishiguro which has touched me deeply yet again. I’ve decided write a personal post influenced by things that book has made me dwell on. There are some very literal references to the book throughout the post that you may notice if you’ve read the book. I’ve written this post because I think that this is not the end of my journey withit and I’d like to have something to reference about how it made me feel this time should I actually dip into it again. A book has to be really good and touch you oh so fervently to draw words out of you, so this is a statement of my admiration for this book.
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