hh:2

From these memories of my youth, from these simplified versions of what took place on one spot in one moment of a universe of fascinating events, I became I.

And what of me, of us, of them, of you, of that which will never be?

I will never hear your voice again, my dear, little friend.

I live, as those who remember you, in your stead.

How many times have I disappointed the image of you I carry in my thoughts?

What would you have done in my place?

Why must I feel I am responsible for your loss when I was just a 10-year old boy at the time, unable to get up the courage to visit you while you were dying in the hospital?

Why did I let mean boys like Robbie make fun of my despondency?  Why did I later rejoice when Robbie got his due in front of all the fifth-grade boys?

Why do I dredge up those memories when there's not a single thing they accomplish for me except in repeating them with these words?

These...those...thine...mine...

What is left for me but to recall these memories like a mechanical automaton fortune teller?

The crossroads of history are scarred with ruts.

I pick up my walking stick and trudge across one more time.

One more time...

One more time...

The weight of memories bending my back with imaginary unbearable pain found in no joints or muscles.

We grow old, my family and me.  Our memories disappear with the passing of every one of us, one by one.

These are my memories.  This is my pain.

My happiness and misery will go with me into oblivion one day.

So will that of my subcultures, cultures and civilisations.

The way is never known except that it is known by everyone - into and out of the moment.

How we form and remember our thoughts is all we ever had.

All we ever were.

All this universe will ever be.

Absent of thought.

Like 2:44 on the clock turning into hh:2 upside down.

Symbols with no symbolism.

Existing without being remembered.