The cruellest thing to say right now: I do not remember these things. The chair and the grapes. My memory still refuses to come back. There are layers of memory out there. But you have to start with the first layer. Once the first layer is set the others will come wilfully. Once the first layer is set you can go on and on and on until it is physically impossible to move on. You go on until you reach the nightmarish instance in which the mind will no longer be able to engulf everything and everything will seem condensed and airy at the same time. Until you cannot move because in a nightmare things have to happen. You have no will there. No will to escape. In a nightmare you get a glimpse of your creator’s dreaming machine. Because He will dream you like He moulded you. You will live in His dream of love. But in a dream like that things have to happen. They do. Until the body stops responding to the call of matter.
Once you have the first layer things will keep coming to you, like on a conveyor belt. Once you start this game you won’t be able to stop. Until you won’t be able to make the difference between a real memory and a fake one. You’ll make up people but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters right now is to have a memory.
One. The clock ticking. It’s my mother’s clock, she goes to work early in the morning or late into the night. I feel so sorry for her because she has to go to work every day without drawing any pleasures out of it. I wish I could work for her, instead of her.
Two. Water dripping. My brother’s taking a shower. He smells good afterwards. I wish I’d knew how he smells to other people.
Three. My mother talking on the phone. Obligation. She calls her mother every Saturday evening because she feels like she’s performing a sort of duty, so that her mother won’t feel left out.
Four. The bus outside. I go to school every week-end. I go to my uncle’s house by bus. I sometimes miss the bus as normal people do.
Five. The sound of the city. I dreamt of this sound every night when I was a child. I went to sleep with that sound. For me it’s like a lullaby, it helps me sleep.
Made out of relations the world turns predictable.
Nights divide and conquer.
Mitosis. Memories are like cells, they are born and then they die.
It is in our blood. Through networks of veins we carry this desire for each other. A desire for relationships, relations between two consecutive or non-consecutive chemical elements. I carry a chemical valence which makes me compatible with another element. The smoke of our lust escapes through out teeth. This desire to feel muscles twitching under naked hands and bare feet. To feel that we are also glorious architecture, not only flat epidermis and bone. And to feel rigid muscles softening under the breath or our love.
Boom! By the light of lightning I shall seek thee, memory.
Seek me by the light of lightning, I shall hide in the sound and the echoes of thunder.
When you have lost your memory, everything else is so loud because along your memory you have also lost the ability to listen to matter. So everything is like a screeching sound as you move. Presences are no longer felt, what you feel is just the awkwardness of not knowing.