The falsities I signify as memories lie in stacked planes, pierced by a needle, threaded taut at the most peculiar points; each day is an involuntary setting off of previously lived remembrances, bounded in touchstones I’ve symbolically mythologized in my psyche. One past moment bounds into another: full submersion in a wormhole of past occurring in the present. The eyes of my mind move slowly along the thread, convinced they see details unnoticed at the initial experience. (I hesitate to call it the real experience for this remembering repaints from the root what I’ve been fooled to believe as reality.)
This is all as difficult to imagine as it is to describe. If I’d mastered drawn lines, I’d let you see with shapes and colors, but my hand cannot be commanded to map the threads’ obscure course through the stacked planes of my past. If I master language and its words’ precise arrangement, I will translate for you the momentary memory membrane melds and the conflagration at their collisions. Oh, how they cripple and inspire.
Many strange and cunning characters are welcome here, but Reason has no place in this venture.