The Memory That Was Not My Own, Really?

Monday, May 9, 2011

It's been a while since I ramble about the deepest thoughts that run around in my head like colorful automatic flying kites of many shapes. I stop writing them down purely because they go on and on without a cause, skirting around and plunging into random subjects based on any triggered memory or random fits of fancy and I am reluctant to risk sounding like the silly self-indulgent incoherent fool that I am.

But that's what a blog is all about these days eh, so I shouldn't be beating myself too much for wanting to sound like every other person who is busy sharing some insane stories they might have right this instant, right? rambling thoughts started today while I was browsing through a couple of old digital photos dated a few years back and I was jolted with a feeling or a quiet observation that the "I" that was in the pixels, wasn't really the "I" that is typing this sentence right now. It is strange, yet, very relieving in the mellowest sort of way.

There were pictures of me smiling like someone was actually literally tickling my funny bone at the moment the camera went blinking and then another of me just looking at the person behind the camera, trying to curl up the corners of my mouth so I that I'd looked like I really wanted to smile, but wow did I look like the most fake smiler and others of loved ones with faces so vibrant and younger, fresher and also thinner (aha). It made me wonder if the presence that was in them then, has been gradually transformed, sharpened, made better or wearier, wiser or lamer over the passing years.

I once told my mother that I had a memory, as a stubborn kindergartener who refused to engage in any interaction or finish her assignments for the teacher to collect. In hearing my story, my mother responded by saying that, that was not my memory at all. It was of hers. I remember feeling like I was duped, or that my mother was a mischievous memory-thief. Though, I don't remember much about what we talked after or anything that was remotely related to what I was obsessed about; the memory that was rendered moot, my mind planted its sticky fingers on the memory of having a fake memory.

The memory of telling her that story somehow made its return today and I wonder if my memory of the memory of having that mooted memory was essentially flawed and that the whole act of remembrance that I'm currently engaged in right now is about as productive as the act of flatulence.

There's something in the air tonight that makes me nostalgic and I assure you that it is definitely not the scent natural (bodily) winds passing. Our existence as an identity, (the ego) is dependent on subjective memories, perceptions and interpretations. These layers upon layers of memories that we perceive as vital are like invisible hands building an ash castle that is easily swept by a gentle breeze and soon, this 'I' will cease to be. We are completely magic, aren't we?

Image Credit:
Mixed paint on used computer disks at

shanaz@RS | 1:53 AM | Labels:

You Might Also Like