Sometimes, it’s easy to forget the ratio of soul to the ratio of precision with steps that is involved in dancing. It’s just as easy as forgetting about how much of soul should be involved in your daily routine, as you pirouette into familiar circles around the aspects of your life.
I found myself wondering a while ago about what it must’ve been like for me the first time it rained. I can’t seem to remember it, but I do hope that I hadn’t seen it on TV or been told about it until it happened.
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?