spiral jay
People often ask, what is a memory.
Or, I do anyways.
What is that point in time
Frozen within your mind that makes you act the way you do
Think the way you do, talk. The way you do.
What is that?
The piece of the universe that breaks off and stores itself within you, how do you describe it?
How do you explain
The clear as day images.
Or the blurry maybes.
Or the forgotten somewheres.
I'm not sure.
I'm not sure where we discovered memories.
I'm not sure, when we decided that the shards of existence flowing through our veins to make our feet walk and our tongues twist and our hearts beat was normal.
I mean, of course it's normal.
But when did we come to terms with that?
Did we ever need to?
Did we accept it as instinct?
But an instinct is a pre written memory so really, did we remember to remember that memory is instinct?
It makes my head hurt to think about this paradox.
And it hurts even more to think that I can only think about this because I remember how to think.
I think there's beauty in that.
Beauty in not understanding how we understand.
Not knowing how we know.
Like a dance of disorder that becomes order, so unpredictable that it awes it's crowd purely because no one has seen or comprehended a dance quite like it ever before or ever again.
I don't know what a memory is.
But whatever it may be, it is beautiful.
A true work of art, a performer who's performance I am happy to witness for the rest of time as it collects itself within my mind,
Bits of my world holding hands to make up me.
paper girder