Living inside a memory of somebody else's mind. Nostalgia gives me life, retrospect my bones, remembrance my skin. Spheres of the brain are composing me, breathing and blowing me, obliterating the reality that I feel so permanently. We are each others' memories, constituted and fragmented in gray and white matter...that's the only way we live on, come back to the people that remember us, in material form.
I don't want to forget...who you were to me that day, don't want to remember who you are to me now...who will you be a second from now? What will you say to change everything? Will perceptions be perpetuated or destroyed in an act of defiance that deems scope dispensable.
I don't want to live trapped inside a vision, fantasy, utopia...a nightmare, or mundane monotony due to what your memory does to my skin, to my face, to the days that I live inside and outside you. I am shy inside of you, cowardly, unknown, a black face, impersonal, lost, one in the crowd...nothing, everything depending on how you see me that day...some hot hyperbole desecrated and mutilated to metonomy? Am I...what you think I am, what you remember me to be? Or perhaps a postmodern portrayal, fissured, and fragmented...capricious and unpredictable, coming together within that day, that hour, that second...then I shift.
A different person in the morning than night. Who am I to you? What will you allow to be remembered of me, that constructs how you communicate with me? What do you forget everyday when you see me? To think, that the entire wholeness of an individual is never what greets you when you look into its eyes, you will never understand the mist and motion in a person’s sighs, the truth in her lies, the infinite goodbyes that are retained in remembering and forgetting certain parts of peoples' personalities…letting go of a person you “know”…all of the heavy whimpering and wilting found in recollection and retrieval, un-meditated memory neglect…to know that all the pieces you have thrown at me…some of them die. Your personality is never full in my eyes. We are always yet to be discovered, remembered, and forgotten by those "known" to us.