Sunday, August 23, 2009
The note from which a chord is built.
Memory construction. The things built into it, its all so strange. And sometimes--most of the time--I can't help but thinking that there's no way an atheist has ever felt this way about anything because the way I feel is supernatural. There is no other explanation for the way it spans space and time, for the way it has never faded nor died, just changed shape and become more than I knew anything could become, it has metamorphosed into a creature I think maybe only I have ever met, appreciated, smelled. And no matter what, this will always be one of my favorite things, its nothing that neither space nor time will touch, only inflate, breathe life into, gloss over and hold and keep for me and only me. It flows, it flows right through me and lights up everything in me, my cells expand, my muscles ease, my bones stretch, my eyes see more clearly, my memory sharpens and nothing nothing nothing has been lost, has ever been dulled nor loosened nor forgotten. And nothing is like it used to be but its almost better this way, better to the taste, to hold on to, to see because now there is no pain, just joy at what has been gained through loss. It is now not a scar nor a spur, though it is as permanent as both yet without the connotation of anything malicious; it is benign without the complaisant, it is exciting without the arrest, it is new without the repetition. It is both comfort and euphoria, it has become exactly as it should without any of my own doing and in spite of my own hindrance along the way.