There comes a moment in life when one must acknowledge that you just can’t keep looking back into your past for reasons to keep someone in your present and future. Regardless of how much looking that cruel reality in the eye hurts…memories can’t be enough.
It seems to me that when you look back at a life – yours or another’s – what you see is a path that weaves into and out of deep shadow. So much is lost. What we use to construct the past is what has remained in the open, a hodgepodge of fleeting glimpses. Our histories, like my father’s current body, are structures built of toothpicks. So what I recall of that last summer in New Bremen is a construct of both what stands in the light and what I imagine in the dark where I cannot see.
What was our life like? I almost don’t remember now. Though I remember it, the space of time it occupied. And I remember it fondly.
For me, at least, fiction is the only way i can even begin to twist my lying memories into something true.
If we lose all our sweet memories, it means we are dead even if we are alive!
People have often told me that one of their strongest childhood memories is the scent of their grandmother’s house. I never knew my grandmothers, but I could always count of the Bookmobile.
Experience had taught me that even the most precious memories fade with the passage of time.
No, honey. Maybe you can put the things from the Overlook away in lockboxes, but not memories. Never those. They’re the real ghosts.
One forgot, one forgot. What hold had one on the past? The present moment was a little travelling in darkness.
My mind has cleared a little; I’ve regained some instincts and associations, echoes of the Living world if not actual memories. Those I still have to steal.