(no subject)
If I could, I would write a story about memories that belong to no one but us. How lonely it is to be locked inside of something that only matters to you. I would write a short pretending to be fictional story about people falsely thinking they can be understood or understand, and how persistence of your unique memory contributes to the impossibility of being understood by those with whom one shares the most.
i mean, not always. there are those magic moments when consciousnesses touch, but these moments are so rare and so dear, and the memory of these gets corrupted just as much as any other memories, that I suppose these could as well be discounted.
tonight i danced and danced, and i thought and thought. i go to these dancing meditation classes when i get a chance, and today something clicked, and as I danced, I managed to get in touch with my inner Rashomon.
Funny, how one first feels and verbalizes this around the age of 16, and yet it doesn't go away, but becomes a life-long recurring theme.
*
Another thing that just occurred to me is that I sometimes have a fighting chance of reconciling my memories with my women friends; the men i've ever been in love with don't remember what i remember. never. and vice versa.
*
Tonight I find myself in my (very vivid) memory, on a bank of a river in an old french-y city, at midnight, looking up at a giant and ancient tree. As if it were yesterday. And I am so very alone in that memory.
i mean, not always. there are those magic moments when consciousnesses touch, but these moments are so rare and so dear, and the memory of these gets corrupted just as much as any other memories, that I suppose these could as well be discounted.
tonight i danced and danced, and i thought and thought. i go to these dancing meditation classes when i get a chance, and today something clicked, and as I danced, I managed to get in touch with my inner Rashomon.
Funny, how one first feels and verbalizes this around the age of 16, and yet it doesn't go away, but becomes a life-long recurring theme.
*
Another thing that just occurred to me is that I sometimes have a fighting chance of reconciling my memories with my women friends; the men i've ever been in love with don't remember what i remember. never. and vice versa.
*
Tonight I find myself in my (very vivid) memory, on a bank of a river in an old french-y city, at midnight, looking up at a giant and ancient tree. As if it were yesterday. And I am so very alone in that memory.