a day in the life: dreams to remember

“Let your story go. Allow yourself to be present with who you are right now.”

– Russ Kyle

I wish I was blessed with the great gift of eternal memory. I see autobiography and memoir sections in bookstores (yes, they still exist) and wonder to myself how anyone could put their lives into any form of chronology. I can’t even begin to formulate any kind of clear, rational picture of what my life has been so far.

I sometimes wish I had kept a journal or diary of some sort when I was younger so I could remember more. I do feel, however, that when people begin writing in that specific stylistic narrative, personal truths get twisted and extremes get embellished. Once submerged into the re-creation of one’s life, journals and diaries often become fictionalized accounts of reality.

My life, though, for the sake of only a little bit of remembrance, appears to me in broken, fragmented passages of cloudy polaroids. But I do think there is something special in the knowing – the remembrance – of one’s life.

I consider myself lucky, though, because I have learned that with the “madness” comes a resounding, yet empty silence. And that’s okay. The older I get the less I can remember about the “madness”. It’s not completely necessary to know what happened to know that it happened, though. There is always a beginning to everyone’s story, no matter how fictionalized it has become over time.

It’s true. The older I get, the less I remember. I think that’s how it goes, though. I’m not atypical in that regard. But I have to wonder how much of this loss of remembrance is due in part to the “madness”. I know it plays a role in these types of things. I know that. And that’s terrifying.

I won’t get into statistics this time around, but they are also terrifying. They make it hard to be able to enjoy the moment. You’re definitely living in the moment, though. Living in the moment going 100 mph on the edge of a razor blade. It comes with a tragic intensity that can only be described by the gods for there are no words that could adequately sum up the hell that is the “madness”.

Now, that may seem a little extreme, but it’s not by much.

We weren’t built to last. Apparently, we weren’t built to remember either.

Hell, now even I can’t decide which is worse: knowing and remembering, or the alternative.


My life, though, for the sake of only a little bit of remembrance, appears to me in broken, fragmented passages of cloudy polaroids. But I do think there is something special in the knowing – the remembrance – of one’s life.

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