The Smallest Place in the World

the greatest place in the whole world. the place of perception, the place of deception and unimaginable and infinite possibility when it comes to imagination.

The Smallest Place in the World 

 

I try to think of a place. One place. So many come to mind. I can name and describe, in perfect detail, so many carpets and tables and walls that have encased so many poignant memories�"and, yet, I find no reason to do so. Instead, I think of where all these images are coming from. Somewhere in a room much smaller than any I’ve ever been in, lies a vast library of people and places I have no say in chronicling.  

 

I remember a picture of a flower in my grade-eight science textbook. The caption beneath states that I will forever have this picture ingrained in my brain. I find this concept rather irritating. Now there is no way I could ever eject that picture from my memory. Against my will, it has been framed and hung in the hallways of my mind. Not even locked away in a filing cabinet, as many of my memories are, but placed in the most conspicuous area possible by that annoying caption. It remains a constant reminder that I am a slave to memories, each one being encased and placed to rest for future reference. 

 

I call upon them purposefully when facts need to be remembered or decisions need to be made. Sometimes they appear at random when I am lost in thought or deep in sleep. The memories are mummified, though. The details slightly distorted by dust and the depreciating effects of time. But, unlike the man who stores his mummified wife in his living room coffee table, these thoughts come from a place much smaller and harder to imagine. A place more complicated than the abstract�"although it exists in a physical form, no one has ever been there.  

 

I mean, everything comes from a physical, tangible source, does it not? Even emotions are simply chemicals being released as a result of foreign stimuli; therefore, there must be a place where my memories dwell, waiting patiently to be called upon so they can make their seemingly instantaneous trek down paths of chemical trails. Dead and decomposing myelin sheath act as the organic matter on the proverbial forest floor of my mind. Long branches of dendrite reach out overhead, seeming to share the same electrical impulses. All affected similarly by the same environment.  

 

I can imagine, however, that some paths are more travelled than others. Paths that veer toward cabins full of self-deprecating thoughts or books written by Kurt Vonnegut are clear cut. All the grass is snapped near the roots, and ATV tracks run the length of them. It’s very easy to get back and forth. 

 

But when I try to impress a girl or solve a math equation, I end up getting lost or scratching myself for weeks because of some poison ivy that shouldn’t have been there. This place is not porous and grey, soft and squishy. It is not long and round, moist or mushy. It doesn’t smell like anything, but like everything. It looks dark and oaky, like the coffee shop I hung out at as a kid, old farmers holding symposiums around the centre table, like a Davinci painting, but with coffee as their wine. It feels like the corridors of my old school, circuitous and oppressive. Chockfull of wanna-be authority figures judging even the most meaningless actions, making me anxious and paranoid. It smells like my grandma’s house, clean yet musky, strong yet pleasant, familiar yet like nothing else I’ve ever encountered. It sounds like the religious establishments I was once a part of as a child. Quiet and reverent in the presence of the unfathomable, with the ringing of contemplation, like the Catholic Churches of my childhood, but it is boisterous in jubilation of communion and magnitude of the so called “Divine,” like the New Life Victory Fellowship of my adolescence.    

 

I can’t even begin to conjecture what it tastes like, but I’m sure it’s good�"encompassing all the facets of my pallet. Like Heinz Ketchup. And I know it’s all subjective. If a brain surgeon were to go to this place, I’m sure he would find it porous and grey and soft and squishy. But I can’t help but romanticize the most mysterious and meaningful place in all of mankind�"the place where all THIS comes from. Perception, existence, life! ME! And each of us has this place inside ourselves, literally. 

 

And without it, would any other place really matter?

Author's Note

only constructive criticism will be acknowledged. its not about grammer, its about description, and turning an assignment to describe a place to describing the only place that will ever matter to any of us.

Reviews

[Stephen grettum]

Amazing thank you once again I must say F**k grammar as it to is someone else's view of correct you are an amazing writer haven't read your screen play yet i very much enjoyed the two story's I've read. Something I wanted to add to we all stare down it brought perspective to my own inner darkness for that I can not thank you enough:)