memory bank
it makes you wonder. what the purpose of it all is. why as i sit here in the grass under the golden light, certain memories are resuscitated. emblems of a different life. why do they all piece together to make the whole?
what was the significance of my freshman year homecoming, and the first time i stayed in a new york city hotel by myself. what is the meaning behind this accumulation of memories? where did they come from and where will they eventually go? what is this invisible inertia in our minds and what ethers does it hold?
are we connected symbiotically?
i place my forehead to the blank page and i’m met with a cool reassurance of being supported. the subtle gloss holding the touch of my skin. if i treat this paper like an extension of myself, where will the ethers go? will they settle and live here forever? robbed from the trenches of my memory bank. no, instead they multiply. uniquely. each time expunged a memory anew. every time we release an old experience, it meets the air of this life. creating a new mixture. the ethers are ever-changing. the bank does not remain blue.
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there is a bright pink archway, there is a set of stairs, there is the moment, and there is right now.
which will you choose to serve you,
which will you service with care?
i am sitting and i am quiet but i am ravishing. inside i am wholeness built from a thousand tiny pieces. one million bites of cities. there is the motor and there is the charge. i am the electric current. i look at the sky in its darkness and i am reminded of why i chose to live in the city. the part of town unlike all the others. the place that represents what we are not known for. i drove to the heartbeat. i made my way to outer space. the swans careening neck shows me the indelible nature of solitude. we are bent but not broken. lonely but not alone. it could also be the other way around. depending on how you look at it. depending on how much you need the story to be the winning round.
the pink of my light looks like the moon outside my window. a bright pink orb in the moonlight. chapters are changing and people are moving but i am solid for once. i am not being hurled through reality. the road is moving with me. the story is being told through me. and i open my mouth, and i wrestle my fingers, and i place these words with my pen.
i begin to tell the story of how i lived through the changes.