Monday, March 12, 2007

Things Best Left Forgotten

We all have stories to tell, mine’s just shorter. He doesn’t remember me, but I remember him. He was smaller then, but so was the world, or the way I remember it. I don’t remember much from then, not much worth remembering. If I were to remember what I needed to remember, all those moments, I’d be remembering things best left forgotten. It’s less complicated that way, and in the end easier to forget what shouldn’t be remembered. I won’t bore you with the details of my life, the moments in between, those are too many to recount, and even if I could, recount them, they’d seem vague and distant, not worth remembering at all.

I don’t remember my birth, that day forty-nine years ago when I was called into this world, drawn out from the inside. If I could remember I suppose I’d remember it as a warm place, an inside that was safe and warm. The outside wasn’t, it wasn’t warm or safe, but a place of confusion and light, a place of speculation and anger, a place that exist inside me now, even though I wish it didn’t. The place that was the outside is now the inside, the inside in of me, my self seen from the inside out. It’s not what you see, but what I see when I look inside of me, at the outside in of me.

I am not to be trusted, so if you chose to read on, remember that I am not someone who pays attention to details or truth. After all, in the end all truths are alike, someone else’s remembering, some seen from the outside in, others from the inside out. It’s always easier to lie than to tell the truth, even though a lie seldom gets told without some truth to it, something about it that isn’t a lie, but the truth told from the inside, from somewhere deep inside the lie. So if I lie, I will be telling the truth, but a truth that lies deep inside, where the difference between the truth and a lie is speculation, a truth told to cover up a lie.

I don’t sleep much anymore; my thoughts forbid that I find some comfort in sleep. Sleep would be too easy, too comforting, a reprieve from the drudgery of wakefulness. Were I to sleep, and wish be that I could, maybe the inside out would stop, maybe it would find some comfort in the inertia that sleep provides. There’s no use in thinking about it, inertia comes when it’s good and ready, not a moment before. Perhaps this wakefulness is sleep, but I’m unaware of it, not yet allowed entry into a wakeful sleep.

No comments:

Powered By Blogger

About Me

My photo
"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz