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Memories that fade!



I wonder how memories fade over time, the people in it, the places, time and substance. Wonder what happens to all those memories that are forgotten, that are neglected. Some remain, while others fade away. Every second a new memory forms, and another recedes into the darkness like a lighthouse that illumines the surface beneath it, only for that moment. I never fully understood the memories; space and time, in which they operate. Each memory so beautiful and unique, so much full of life and colors, the people that made it possible, it is all so intriguing.

Wonder how all those people that I met in my lifetime thought about me, wonder how I lived in their memories, wonder how different I am in the memories of all those men and women that I struck a conversation with. Could it be possible that I put all the pieces together and realize me, could it be argued that the realization cannot be argued, for I cannot realize myself, just as a word cannot define itself in the same words in a dictionary.

So, what am I? If I am unrealizable, if I cannot be put together, if I cannot really exist in my memories, if I cannot feel myself. Each person I met in my life has been unique in some way or other. Each one had a different countenance, different strength in them. Some like me, some hated me, and carried along with them my element of their memories. Today, I exist in those memories, some forgotten; some new, some fine, some blurred.

What is all this? The elation of memory; of carefully dissociating the fine threads of memory and running down the length of each of these fibers, pausing here and there where the thread is all tangled up. Why? I ask, do I pause here at the tangled mess, why am I drawn towards this junction every time I happen to perform this exercise of revisiting my memory. Why do I like these memories, is it the place, is it the time, is it the person.

Kind, calm, and sweet; some of these memories are sticky, and I have to tread the roads ever more conscientiously or I might fail the memories. When that happens, the memory is no more there for me to appreciate. Time passes and I realize that the memories sometimes aren’t quite concrete, they tend to slip off into the darkness. Forgotten, there they stay, and it must be the lack of light, the attention or perhaps the lack f lucidity that these memories rejuvenate. They reform while in the abyss, then they resurface, unexpectedly when I am ill prepared to face them. They plague me with their firmness, they haunt me with their striking nubile beauty.

I was a child once, I wish I had stayed that way.

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