A Question on Memory

And tell me do you remember?

Do you?

You, who sits there casually watching the past weave its way into the present. As the fabric of space time folds to create a circle. You, who has been cycling for so long that you are right back where you began. Tell me.


Open your heart and find the words.

Any words.

Do you remember anything at all?

Or are you waiting for history to finally push its way over you and into the space that you have carefully crafted for you and your loved ones? How much louder do you think the noise is going to get before it becomes nothing more than a silent dull in the background? Before if becomes nothing more than a sound that you once knew how to hear but have since unheard? How much more must history scream into your ear, demanding for attention?

Why are you silent?

You refuse to acknowledge even the slightest presence of a past, of an existsence that came before you. Instead you insist that everything is novel. That everything is new. Even your exhaustion seems to take you by surprise. As if the journey was meant to go on for so much longer but you find yourself down and panting 2 seconds into the first half. Yes, you made a big tackle. But one big tackle does not the game win.

And they are now going to start attacking – with vengeance. They know that you are making tackles, so they are going to run hard. But everything is new to you. With no context you wonder why they are running hard. But tell, me. Tell me now – do you remember?

Because you were there. You were active. They saw you, everyone saw you. If anything everyone was very much paying attention to you and now you sit there acting like you don’t know? Like nothing happened in the time between the beginning and you lying on the ground, grasping for air. Tell me again how you forgot. What parts went missing. Tell me again so I can clarify, step by step.

Cluelessness is not something that you have been known to embody well.

Yet still, that’s how you act. Is that what you know? Tell me.

Is this, all that you see around you, is this what you worked for? This shell of an existence that is neither admirable nor to be disdained. Do you really think that you could take the pieces and put together something that might begin to resemble a wholeness? Do you really think that you can take the pieces and know what piece goes where? Is this, all this, is it the epitome of your existence that you give yourself the luxury of forgetting?

Where are the words? Give them to me, I’ll say them. I’ll mean them. Find me the words that you have buried so deep inside that they carry the key to memory. Look for them. What are the words?

Why won’t you tell me?

Or did you, to protect yourself, find a way to forget the words as well? Lock the past away and give the key to a stranger who you will never see again. Was this your plan? To hide behind a clueless face and the wisdom of unknowing? Did you really think it would work?

Where are you? Look up, look around, re orient. Tell me. Where are you? Have you found yourself? Or are you still looking in old sufurias for traces of a meal you once had? Have you even tried to remember?

Have you even tried to remember?

Or do you still hope that forgetting will save you?

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