A blessed
mind’s eye that records freeze frames and etches them in a film one can’t find,
and stores
them in an order and a fashion that no digital bank can even hope to match,
a retrieval
that is triggered by a mere sight, a sound or even a whiff of a smell in the
wind,
that brings
back every single minute detail, of the reality that once was, a perfect match.
A boon to
some who treasure those moments of their lives that have touched them deeply,
memories of a
childhood free from care or worry, enthusiasm unbridled, curiosity ever ready,
a flush of
firsts in the journey thus far, each memorable and momentous, defining us
completely,
and the disappointments
that have balanced, crushing in defeat, leaving us unbalanced, unsteady.
There are
those of us who choose to live amongst these freeze frames, considering them current,
preferring this
alternate to reality itself, choosing instead to stick to the comfort of the
known,
choosing to
see every situation through the lens of what has been, past interpreting the present,
stuck in
reverse gear, ever moving backward with each step forward, in company or all
alone.
And some of
us choose to look the other way, preferring the bustle of our drone like
existence,
and it’s
routines that give us the comfort and security that we desperately seek and are
slaves to,
until we are
in a curious state of limbo where the mind’s purpose dissolves, vanishing in
the distance,
and then it
seeks the secure, a small trigger taking it back, recreating a picture that
only it knew.
Sometimes,
it is only in the unbound, uncontrolled freedom of sleep that the mind goes hunting,
searching for
a memory and fusing it with its deepest desires and transforming it into a
dream,
letting you
live in a parallel world that it created, an indulgent prospect, otherwise too
daunting,
unsecured by
reality’s constraints, it’s questions deliberately unanswered, a new born
stream.
Some
memories haunt, terrifying in their persistence and relentless in their pursuit
of your mind,
try as you
might to erase them, no wipe and no reset button could ever kill that indelible
print,
and every
once in a while, as life’s river flows on placidly, under the surface whips an
eddy blind,
raising up a
ghost that would not stay buried, a restless spirit that appears at the
slightest hint.
And there
are those who lose every precious moment, the mind flitting like a sprightly
butterfly,
unable to
sift through what the eyes see, what the mind perceives, running down a confusing
maze,
until all
seems to pass as transient visions, the strongest are the only ones that they
now swear by,
built in the
games of childhood, even these fade away, as the mind burns itself out in a brilliant
blaze.
And so it is
that every one of us comes back like the hands of the clock itself, turning
full circle,
reliving life
itself in a flashback, folding back on itself like a wrinkle that shall never
fully pass,
never
grateful for that beautiful memory that comes sweeping back instantly at beck and
call,
until it is
all gone, every last grain seeping out through the hole at the bottom of the
hour glass.
