Moment here and a moment there... and its gone.
You walk through a terrain of precarious existence, fragile and temporal. Selfish and vulnerable. And in an exceptional moment, people let go, and the anxieties, the fears and the selfishness all dissolve in a fabric of a fictitious reality, a reality thats ethereal, unworldly, diaphanous that only lasts a fleeting moment. A moment that escapes our consciousness. And we trace it, we try to place it, maybe fit it?, in our reality but it seems to have its temporal dynamics, its own spatial existence. It does not exist in any way we would think it would. It can not be re-captured. For the setting in which it took place can never be replicated.
And its lost.
And out of this formidable sense of loss does our memory grow. Re-playing it. Re-creating, a thousand times, creating a mental scape, a mental setting where the recollection of this moment is possible. An inner space, a microcosm, a parallel one, where 'the moment' can be lived once more.
And a moment that was here, on the outside, is here, on the inside, its was once here and now its there.
But how long can it be captured? For how long can it be retained? For how long can we fool our minds, our memories and think its possible to keep it?
If the microcosm is a pale reflection of a magnificent macrocosm, then we cannot go on deluding ourselves believing that whats on the inside will remain 'unchanged'. Faithful, true to 'the memory'.
For those who made the memory, changed. Were altered. Altered to the extent that the memory is no longer intelligible. Or desirable to keep.
It becomes a source for pain. A painful reminder of how unwise we were about a number of fateful choices. And a moment that was once here and once there, is gone. After a long struggle of trying to keep it, to chain it to our memory, is set free. Then forced to fly.
Unmounred, uncelebrated, its easily slips into a great black oblivion. Like dark matter. With no beginning end no end. And when we look back at it, we are lost. We look at the very end of the universe where all reality converges to nothingness, an immense nothingness.
And the memory no longer matters. We are consumed by our sense of loss, and marvel about this strange substance that eats up our memory and in return gives us this incredible sense of void, of nothingness.
And its lost.
And out of this formidable sense of loss does our memory grow. Re-playing it. Re-creating, a thousand times, creating a mental scape, a mental setting where the recollection of this moment is possible. An inner space, a microcosm, a parallel one, where 'the moment' can be lived once more.
And a moment that was here, on the outside, is here, on the inside, its was once here and now its there.
But how long can it be captured? For how long can it be retained? For how long can we fool our minds, our memories and think its possible to keep it?
If the microcosm is a pale reflection of a magnificent macrocosm, then we cannot go on deluding ourselves believing that whats on the inside will remain 'unchanged'. Faithful, true to 'the memory'.
For those who made the memory, changed. Were altered. Altered to the extent that the memory is no longer intelligible. Or desirable to keep.
It becomes a source for pain. A painful reminder of how unwise we were about a number of fateful choices. And a moment that was once here and once there, is gone. After a long struggle of trying to keep it, to chain it to our memory, is set free. Then forced to fly.
Unmounred, uncelebrated, its easily slips into a great black oblivion. Like dark matter. With no beginning end no end. And when we look back at it, we are lost. We look at the very end of the universe where all reality converges to nothingness, an immense nothingness.
And the memory no longer matters. We are consumed by our sense of loss, and marvel about this strange substance that eats up our memory and in return gives us this incredible sense of void, of nothingness.
Comments