A Memory (but not revealed)

Last night I was revisited by old memories from my childhood self and I feel like I am being exposed to something I have either forgotten or I have not yet learned. Reconnecting with this memory compels me to write lists and write down all of the forgotten details. First, a list for myself:    The colours of childhood:

  • Dark brown, paneled wood lining the living room
  • Light brown chiming/echoing wood of the grandfather clock pressed up against the wall
  • Forest green furniture lounging in the middle of the living room
  • A downy blue throw blanket draped across my young clumsy sleeping body (a small black labrador curled up next to me)
  • Burgundy fragments / curdled burnt orange sprinkled throughout
  • Fireplace stone, fireplace firewood, fireplace fire
  • Candlelight illuminating just fractures of childhood-home-framework
  • The light from the frosted sunroof pouring down onto one specific spot (the slanted roof that always felt immense)
  • Peering into the kitchen and seeing white counters and painted wood

I keep questioning my memory and I am not sure exactly what I am seeing when I close my eyes and look at the once well known blueprint. I feel like I am not remembering anything clearly and so I am trying to write everything I remember, but it still isn’t enough because I cannot verify the image. I once thought that I lived in a world of memory (and I do), but some memories are too far away from me now. The memories that have at least a decade’s worth of time separating us are fragile and I have not cared enough for them. I feel like meditating has helped me reach back into my memory and awkwardly grasp at the person that I once was (and still am in many ways). However, I am still living in a world with one eye closed and the other eye only squinting at everything around me (too bright). The recognition of my own loss of self/loss of past has made me more cognizant of the colours and the others around me. I am trying to be better about recording the seemingly mundane because I do not want to lose these details anymore -I do not want to question whether my memories are truly mine or inventions of mine. In the midst of this, sometimes I find myself either writing too much or writing too little (I want to always be the former and never again the latter). The details that I write are not always the things I should be paying attention to, however.

Writing down my memories has been like recording dreams. I am amazed by the sense-making-capabilities that we have as people in the world, and when I look out of this coffeehouse window I see the structures and the They [das man], as Heidegger would say, and I am amazed. I am amazed. I am amazed. Humans are meaning-making-machines when we try to construct a reality that we are comfortable with. Now I find myself trying to extract meaning from my wilting memories in an attempt to help reconstruct my past so that I have more timber for my future. I do not want to lose and I do not want to be lost. Help me find my way and maybe I can help you find your way. What am I always missing ?



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