Memory

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.