Time is a straight line. It flows on relentlessly, with no beginning and no end. Perfect. Smooth. Sharp. Void of color and light. Like huge wavery shadows that have been distilled over and over to produce a single drop of pure essenzia de non-light. Time slices through the endlessness of space, permeating every crevice and connecting the millions of fragile stories growing wings and taking flight every second, every moment, every unit of time. If time could have a unit.
Memories ebb and flow. They are the waves that play on the beach of your consciousness. Soft, white frothy things that gently nudge you out of your mindless mundaneness and take you down a path of grey, cloudy rememberlings. Wisps of a half-forgotten scent. The faded remains of conversations had long ago. A face. A sigh. Memories.
They share a delicately balanced marriage. Memories, gentle feather-like things, entwined with the cold brutal solidity of time for eternity. One moving forward relentlessly into space and the other loosely wound in the lightest of embraces. The strongest of bonds.
One slicing and separating the unseparable into smaller and smaller units. Past. Present. Future. Hour. Minute. Second. Milli. Micro. Nano… The other flowing into them all with joyous abandon, spilling into everything, carrying the grains of one into the others, like a river that carries the mud from everyplace it flows through to make its own soft underbelly. Tempered by land, colored by soil. Silt. Riverbed. Memories.
Rain running down a steel pole.
Gossamer cast over barbedwire.
Wedded together. For Ever.
Past experience. Is it something that has happened at an earlier point in time, that is no longer happening, and that you have put in a small wooden box tucked away in a safe quiet bylane of your mind? Labelled and categorized, perhaps color coded… When where who why w w w… and lessons learnt, bulleted and numbered.
But lessons learnt are lessons gleamed from past experiences, the little glittery residue that remains after the winged thoughtlets have darted across your mind. Like the cloud of dust that settles long after Roadrunner has sped away. It doesn't take much. A word, a question, an image perhaps. Memories, that spur thoughts at the most inopportunte moments and make you, well, think. Everytime they emerge, leading you down a new path, a narrow dirtroad carefully hidden among the trees, that you discover by chance and walk down, not knowing where it may take you.
To dredge up a ghost of the past is to color it, again, with your thoughts. Reliving the past through the present, standing behind the giant glasspane, watching the story of your life unfold, noticing things that you hadn’t before, adding pieces to it from behind the glasspane... Work in Progress. Caution:Floor Wet... You add them all, stirring in all the little stories that emerged, picking up and throwing away the older thoughts that have outlived their existence, abandoning and adding, tossing and turning, stirring and churning till all the lumps settle. Somewhat. Then you place it back in its box and tuck it away.
And through it all, time goes on. And on. And on. Tick. Tock.