How do I even remember?
I recall with such vivid detail the conversation of last Friday evening that even the ones directly involved are baffled at my recollection. They had asked what they were laughing about, in their pyjamas at 1AM. How is it that the ones who derived the most pleasure remember the least? Not to say that I hadn't enjoyed our evening together, my cheeks were sore too, but my mind never stopped.
How do I even remember?
Every sound, every reason, every word, every sequence.
Is this a curse or is it a blessing? I remember not what Lefebrve writes even after reading thrice, but I recall moments such as that which does not in any way enhance my living experience. If my task is to roam wastelands collecting lived experiences and sharing them with whoever has the intent of knowing, then I suppose the life of eating grass-root porridge is the life I was meant to live.
If forgetting is not a conscious mechanism and the act of remembering is involuntary, then can one blame me for being embittered by memories past? Can one look down on me and make little of the hurt I tolerate each day?
Elephants have a strong sense of community. So is this how it feels like to live as an elephant, in solitude? Nobody shares your lived experiences and you can only comfort yourself with the feeling of your own trunk that you already know so well, trapped in a rapture of memories.
Until now, I still haven't found the voice that I am indebted to from a life before this. The reflection in the looking-glass only returns my greetings, but never once greet. Perhaps when the Moon is full again she'll send me her messenger clothed in powdered silk. As fate will have it, it is not an elephant that roams the pale desert that is the surface of the Moon.
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