Ralph Waldo Emerson
Our relationship with the past often becomes a series of adaptive functionalities. The why of things being equal to the distance of any established duration, while the why not of things may actually be more assertive in its lack of discernible patterns.
A moment grabbed: expanded, tossed in the air. A gift. Not in the amount of time spent, rather in the amount of love shared. Amber encasing a memory. I hold it in my hand and watch the dawn through the golden cosmos that is the beginning of each day. Thank you.
I developed the habit of tucking bits and pieces of gathered information in amongst the pages of my books as if it provided evidence of a life lived. After the fire, while the soot was being cleaned from the bindings, memories floated blithely to the arrogant ground.
Love is a series of notches along the sideboard of time. I found a note in an old blazer. It said, “I will love you forever.” It wasn’t my jacket, but still. But. Still: I took it to heart.
How much blame is cast upon the arbiters of memory? Pages and pages worth. Countless therapist’s sofas stuffed with accusations and assigned guilt. In my newest past experiment, I will pluck each moment from the fabric of forever and take responsibility as possible.