...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9eWewdTkghM&ab_channel=OlafurArnaldsVEVO

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There is a story -

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A sad, beautiful, boring,

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Terrifying, and tumultuous story,

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Hidden, deep in the corner

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Of the library that resides in my mind.

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There is a film reel there, a stereopticon,

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That throws these images against those walls,

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That synapses moments of incalculable acuity -

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A story,

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Movies,

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Memory -

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And it never truly ceases in its playing.

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When I sleep, 

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The dream never stops unfolding,

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The reel is always left racing, running,

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And, in so far as its seemingly tremendous meaning

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To only and just myself, me, and mine own singularity -

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The solitary eyes of its beholder -

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It frightens me, that I may never know how best to express it;

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That perhaps one day, I won't have the capacity to remember it

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Or that maybe, there won't be many left with the desire,

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The wherewithal and want,

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To be willing even, to listen to my showing it.

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And so the film runs

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And it keeps in its lifetime of capture,

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And the songs comprise its soundtrack,

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And the moments compose their lessons,

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And they play, alongside one another

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In their kaleidoscopic interpolation -

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Music, and form, in their interstitial duet. 

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And I will undoubtedly, always carry it,

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Always cherish some part of it,

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Like so many of those before me,

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Like so many other stories -

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Until even than, the end, to let it slip

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Past its fingerprint,

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Past its frame, 

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To fade, in some unfathomable way 

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Into that different manner of existence

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That lays, for us all, 

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Beyond the tangible,

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Beyond the effable,

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To avail the need 

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For even a camera, 

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The film-reel's storied consistence,

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Or the desire 

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To cling with such magnanimity 

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To each one's own, anthology, of reminiscence.

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Author's Note

(Draft)