memories-gentle choke excerpt

Memories are a mist…fleeting, morphing, rising, falling, changing shape, becoming a rendition of…a new image conjured for whatever reason or reasons…so where do I go? What do I write? How do I write it? What memory should I conjure up and try to paint with words? Each day that passes what I think of as my past is really my latest interpretation, or an interpretation I have held onto for so long it has grown stale…bitter. The most beloved memories, moments, can become acrid and acidic if you hold onto them for too long.

            I started writing this book to expound the joy and amazing connections I made in a short period of time that changed my life. At one point I thought that this point in time changed my life forever, but now I realize that if my life were changed forever that it would be the end. I would cease to exist, becoming a faded photograph of life, a damned spirit doomed to spend eternity living the same fateful moment over and over again. I’ve found that if I don’t renounce what has been I will never find an even greater beauty. I might even overlook the beauty that is right in front of me at this moment. So, again, my question is where do I go from here? Do I continue with this endeavor of digging up graves in my mind? Do I finish what I’ve started? I assume, at this point, that I must. But I must, with all sincerity, look at the past with the eyes of the now. I have journeyed and climbed to new plateaus in life and so it would be foolish of me not to use that newly heightened view to gaze down in retrospect to nurture forward that past rendition.

            In writing, time becomes meaningless and all encompassing at the same time. I no longer have to obey a boundary, I can step off that non-stop track to a supposed end, and I can move about in any place or time that I wish. I am obsessed with time, all writers are. Those who write the past, those who write the now, and those that claim to write the future are all in the same time…it is their minds time…

            When I sit down and try to write my story, a story that to me has been over for years now, I seem to want to etch it into the page bit by bit, like climbing a ladder. The problem is, memories aren’t filed away in a timeline. They move about, floating here and there in a collage of chaotic beauty, which is really more like life itself, then a graph of it…

            Memories…misting…fading…reappearing in even greater colours and textures than any reality could ever hope to be.

            My conclusion is chaos. I will no longer pander to the reader in my endeavors. It is artistically crippling. You diaphanous unrealities have been cramping my style for too long now. It is time for me to break out on my own and whistle whatever images I see down with poetic absolution, wipe my hands clean of the whole matter of structure and false dignity. I will see you on the flipside of reality, in 3…2…1…

 

 

 

Reviews

[Sweet_pale_cacophony]

when did you write this?..i have something in mind but will ask that later :p..your words are so introspective,reflective...and on and on,you are my favorite writer here.It is difficult to escape the magic your words weave.

[Hedra Helix]

nice man. I like how contained you are in this. To quote the great lyttleton " I like new stuff, its growth." or something like that.

Your stuff used to be so raw and this is the oppisite. Now that you do both, Id like to see you delve in between. Cos though not to dwell on the past is smart, still, share all youve learned. please. we want it.

I hope we can, in the very near future, be so much in contact that I can help mirror back your writings path and ask you the right questions to help guide you exactly where you want to go. And vice versa.
I got mad trust in ya brotha, I hope to earn the same and put ideals into practice.

see you on the flipside.