In my brain, the image is crystal clear. A memory unlocked and played on the small screen of my synapses. It is a private show. No one else has these experiences. I have my own director, soundtrack, and cinematographer for the movie of my life.
The delicate images deceive us because many of these places
and realities no longer exist, erased in time like a sandcastle brought level
by the incoming waves. Does that make them any less real?
As our days proceed, the urgency to record these images and
scenes rises with each grey hair on our heads. I feel the need to preserve remnants
of the past because no one else seems to care if the memories live on. I know
it is futile, but I try as I might to keep them intact.
Every person makes their own movies. The screen in which
they work is unique to them, but we all have the same 3,600 minutes each day to
build our lives and our legacy.
While the daily chaos whirls and suffocates us as we
contemplate the horrors of the world, it seems selfish to worry about our own
memories, images, and uneventful stories. They seem so small and insignificant.
But we own them, just as they own us.
How powerful is our mind, that it makes the images alive
again – the smile and laugh of my grandmother, the embarrassment of crushes in
middle school, the exhilaration of mountain views on Boy Scout hikes, the heartbreak
of deceit that stings the soul, and my spirit renewed by the gentle touch of
love – all become real again as I bring them back into existence.
These experiences may disappear when our light eventually fades,
but that is not our concern for now. We must continue to build new memories,
playing them back on our nightly screens, and smile at the thought of all that
we have gained and lost, knowing that the memories, and all that we have ever
known and experienced, will float away with us as the tide washes us out to
sea.
