This weekend is a bit of proof. Far more benevolent than most personal instances. Though of the same ilk. Not many of us can recall being in war. Because most of us were not. And those who were, speaking from my own experience, talk less about it with the more they have seen. One of those direct corollary relationships, right there.
And then, the stories. From family, from friends. Occurrences that may have never occurred before a person, become something that they still feel experienced.
However. I am not here this morning, turning quickly into afternoon, to talk about such things, though my very being here is thanks to the labor of those I’ve never met. In all sorts of forms.
No, I am here to gather the stumbling thoughts of the previous evening. A grand one, it very much was. You can tell because I did not slumber until the sun of what once was tomorrow had risen on today. You only need a few hours as a young man, I believe. And relentlessly attempt to prove. Effectively, me thinks. Why sleep when there is some much life?
Instead, I stumble. Figurative. Literal. And all styles between.
But me and my memories go about, not dissimilar from others.
It is quite something- how difficult it may be to live within the present. As far as our senses go, it’s the only part that we ever lived in. The now. Yet we sculpt that upon both what we have seen, and what we might and hope to see. Often thoughts of the present do not occur. It is a place for action, yet the mind holds to memories and predictions alike.
Perhaps it is the malleability. Though more unable to be altered, we can put past and future through hoops of change. Impossible, for the past. Unknown for the future. Yet what is, is just that. Selective memory is more than just a thing. It is rampant. Infectious, in many ways. Recalling a whole recollection never occurs, but points stand clear. Colors remembered in perfect film tint. Words changed from what they were, to what they may have meant. You don’t remember the day. Its mundane present shaved away to a perfect instant. First tastes. Smells. Touch. Gone, forever. Yet carried everywhere we go.
I can say this, having woke on a familiar couch. In a place where a gauntlet of my own experiences have taken place. In a neighborhood, not my own by origin, but mine by attempt and effort. A place which without, may have spared your humble narrator from the need to ramble to you, the all-powerful reader. Such a drag, your omnipotence must be.
And then, there’s that bastard the future. Stampeding in, quite to the contrary of expectation. All those things that can come whilst waiting for what you thought might be. Life happening as your plans are laid waste.
But perhaps your weakness is not mine. Perhaps I place claim on more than what is mine. I can, as always, speak only for myself. Write for myself. Though never void of the hope that it may catch another. At times, hopeful for anyone. Others, and often, for a specific audience. Singular, even.
But you may not be trapped in the mind as I find myself. And if so, good on you. Though, if that were the case, I don’t think we would find ourselves here. A kid like you, in a place like this.
The trick is fighting toxicity. A few bad memories placing themselves in the grand meeting of facilities. Advising on preventative action beyond reasonability. If you never try, you will never hurt. Don’t. If for nothing else because something horrible may come from it.
And though a convincing argument, it is one that I shall might the mind away from. Against that very inkling designed to keep me safe. I shall argue to go and live, for even death may be a worthy price for life. Even that horrid heartbreak, to some worse than death, is a small toll for the grand possibility of making one of those infinitely influential recollections.
So, go ahead, make memories. Don’t wait for them. And maybe we will have a few together, if we have not already.
The Veracious Facade 