If memories brush past me on the street they go by unnoticed,|
but here, in piles of notebooks and old letters they are cold touches.
taps on the shoulder that can't be ignored or turned from...
and why so many years later all of this matters is beyond me.
Listening to Hallelujah on repeat and the words never mean less
they just strengthen and build and become so many new things
and always familiar, always a lingering trace of the taste of retrospection.
And then these memories become new things...
whether false or revelatory is of little importance...
each is tainted by time and individual perception, raped of truth repeatedly.
It's impossible to disentangle the genuine from the conclusion,
We each love our own version best and tailor it to our interests
until everything we ever remembered is a shadow of the event
and our heads are full of nothing but false memories.
© 2018 Adalia
(All rights reserved)