Memories

Memories

I have recently given much thought, no, intensity and energy

to the question of 'memories'. 

Why do they so shadow us,

why are they so seductively exquisite,

so colourful and vital?!

And in particular, why and what do they say to us. 

Even a schoolboy-dissection of the memory phenomenon

makes us alive to the suspicion that there are infinitely more layers to it,

that it is not just a psychologically-explainable fact,

that perhaps memory is universal, a non-cerebral, ancient survival mechanism,

that memories function as the Keepers of Balance in our existence,

particularly in how we perceive ourselves within our lives, our souls.

The young Queen Memory rides our weary souls,

to keep her and our balance (the really important thing in life, balance)

in our patterns of existence.

Given that we all stand, lips apart, in everyday rank pools of green slime,

pools tarted-up by culture and Hollywood as pink dreams and lollipops,

yet populated by the vicious villagers and creatures of Bosch,

is it any wonder that some sort of balancing act is required

to prevent us from sinking even deeper into this smelly pool,

from where our souls may, perchance, never escape. 

Other cultures, other solutions: some cling to religion, even philosophy,

others Californian mumbo-jumbo. 

Yet the only one friend we have, we walkers of the dark road, denizens of the green pools,

are our timid but intoxicating memories, to remind us that

there had been times when the stench was not that bad really,

when the music soothed and rocketed us to a primal life,

whispering of friendlier, lighter and less painful times. 

Times when we believed in smiles, when sentences weren't written upside down,

and courage was not just a hope but seemed so, so possible. 

Perhaps that is why memories are so intense, so subjective, so not real:

to ensure we remember the memory not the grey-blue reality.

Thus the object of that memory is so much more beautiful, believable!

A true balancing act.

Is memory the mother or daughter of hope?

People talk about losing hope as being a sign of the end times,

that we cannot exist without hope - another real-life myth, there being no such thing really,

hope is just another bottle-blonded  illusion, hope will not enable us to keep our lips closed

and we will survive only by way of our memories! 

A good thing our that memories cannot outlive us, are not downloadable by other persons,

imagine if we had to live in a sphere of existence with everyone's false memories

floating about installing themselves on our hard drives in ourselves.

So forza memory, and thank goodness that we have them,

that they can fool and succour us,

our eternal Band-Aids,

keeping us nicely bandaged in our frail skeletons.

30 May 2011