Well I’ll
tell you what. In lieu of all the changing aspirations of hormonal teenagers,
of the hollowed shells of the lonely and alone, I’ll tell you this- Memories
are a construction of our fantasies and everything we truly yearn for. A memory
can never be a hundred percent accurate because there is a niggling factor that
a majority of us refuse to face- we choose what we want to remember. Nothing
else. Nobody thought to mention that our deep down longing distorts our memories.
They are fake, an example of a
perception twisted where only half truths lie.
I dare say
there is nothing much to cling onto if you so pathetically choose to grasp this
thread of what was once your thoughts,
molded but what you saw, heard, touched and felt.
Perhaps I’m
so bitter because I’ve realized that memories are pretty much empty
dreams-empty, because only one party holds on so tight for solace. And the
other one dismisses it like the tossing back of bed sheets- a signal to start a
new day, flipping aside what they think is dragging them down.
“I don’t
want to constantly feel a ten ton sack of guilt sitting on my shoulders and
pressing against me.”
And so, as
easy as it is to have memories tweaked in a way that pleases you, it will be
equally as simple to forget. At this point I’m not even sure myself which one
of these two types I am-The grasper, or The forgetter?
I don’t
know man, perhaps I’m a little bit of both. Perhaps I take my own memories and
instead of just remembering and exaggerating the good parts, I also choose to
dwell on the darker, hardened fragments. With these pieces I allow it an
explanation as to why everybody has left, or simply decided to pretend.
Pretend
that a friendship never happened, or pretend that you never used to stare at me
in this enigmatic strange way of yours. Let’s just pretend that I never saw you
sitting there way before school started and that we eventually became friends.
That you’d look at me the same way I remembered you; across what seemed like
invisible entities to us and with such intense, confirming verisimilitude that
we’d share in the unlikeliest of places, like metal containers and behind glass
doors.
I mean if
it’s easy for you, it’s easy for me. For are'nt we all ultimately capsules that
choose to elude what was once before? I mean these memories, we can’t always
rely on them. They take a little bit out of all of us, and then more and more
and eventually time shows us that we’ve practically created a whole new vessel
filled with our recollections. Then we look back and realize we’ve poured our
hearts in it and paid no attention to our present beings, we’re too caught up
in our pasts and and longings for a controlled fate.
Am I making
sense? I think yes, I understand. That much matters the most.
