Memory Box

“Does if matter your memories are true or real? Does veracity and fidelity to some objective measure change the way you experience the past?”
“I say that it does not matter one bit. A memory is reflected through the intricate, mysterious synapses of your mind. Built in the web of senses and experience that, by its nature, is subjective. And thank G-d it is. Who really wants a memory drained of humanity?”
“You probably haven’t thought about it and I’m not saying I am special or clever with my take on it. I can’t sleep due to the horrific memories that torture me nearly every night. They’ve imprinted on me to the point that they are something bigger. They almost seem like they are stones of various weights that press down on me, working to put pressure on the weakest parts of my body. For me, the core weakness is my how I deal with trauma. If I could process it and accept it, then I could move past it. That’s what my brother always tells me, anyway. He’s a therapist in training. Literally.”
“So you might say my focus on memories is my puny attempt to defang them. If I can develop a logical, thoughtful definition for them, then maybe I won’t be hunted by then every night. And then I can sleep and move forward with something resembling a life.”
“Now, life is so much more than what I have now. My memories trigger my dreadful thoughts and the feelings of impending doom. A fate I’ve convinced myself is inevitable, but the particulars of it remain just out of reach. What is lurking out there, down the days ahead where I presumably leave this room and try to breathe in life? There is death, of course, but is there an abyss worse than my memories pacing back and forth just beyond this door?”

© 2022 Jeff E. Brown. All rights reserved.

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