Mnemonic

A Story by imrul.islam

Thoughts, memories and interests entwined.

Mnemonic

She traces a finger lightly over the dust-bound cover, down the leather spine battered by time and age. A sigh escapes her soul, the cringing within is expressed by a mere outflow of air. And all of a sudden, the air around her jerks to life- images and memories come tumbling one after another, sorrows and tears come crashing down on her myopia of truth. Lights please.

It was a magical journal, this one- passed down from generation to generation, father to son, mother to daughter, lover to lover. She looks at it in awe. It was a testament of time, of life- a mnemonic, proof that her ancestors had lived. Unknown to her until the moment of her mother’s passing. Away. Into- who are we to tell?

The kaleidoscope of memories around her dissipates- spreads out into a rainbow of colours. Redwhiteblue surrounds her, makes the stars cower in shame. A lone tear journeys down her cheek and explodes on contact with the dust below. The world ignores.

Sometimes we stand on the altar of truth and turn away- not because we are afraid, but because we are not ready. There is, but a subtle difference. She sat there a long time that night- journal in hand, the truthatlast of all she ever wanted to know. And she decided that she did not want to know. She did not want the truth behind her parents’ falling out- like stars out of the sky. She did not want to know her true identity. They always told her she did not belong, that she was a b*****d child- an oddity in the truest sense of the word. And here was her chance at the truth at last- boom or bust. Bust.

She wondered about life that night, and she sought answers. Not from the journal, which she could not help looking at once in a while. Not from the stars, which she loved, nor the skies which had helped forget many a tear. She grew up that night, and she sought answers within herself. And her soul, which had disappointed for too long, disappointed no longer. She found herself muttering lines she had fallen in love with recently-

“Angels don’t exist if children don’t clap their hands.”

Truth dawned. It all came down to belief- not necessarily in absolution, nor in omnipresence- but in oneself. A very long time ago, the moon had turned its crater-filled face to the sun and believed in itself. And all at once, the nights came alive in its pearly glow. The sun burnt in anger, and the more the sun burnt, the prettier the nights became.

As long as she believed, as long as she trusted herself, things would always work out. Maybe not in the stereotypical sense, but in some weird out of the way path, things would be alright.

The journal therefore, taught her to believe. Or maybe it did not. Maybe it was the nature of the night itself- the air with a hint of timelonglost and the stars putting on a show. Maybe it was the crater filled moon which had decided to put in an appearance. And maybe it was her curiosity which made her open the journal anyways.

It was blank.