I construct my own past. There’s no truth in it. Though I write about the life I lived I write as an outsider of my own body.
Memories are chaotic in nature. They are not linear in structure. It’s amazing to see its galaxical nature or neuronal nature. One feature I am satisfied with my memories is its colourfulness. All my memories are coloured. I see yellow, blue, green, sparkling colours. All are interconnected, entangled more like a firework.
I try to disentangle them to know more about me. But, it evades me to turn into complicated neural circuits. I stand watching them communicating with each other and at some moments, they become one, which reminds me of consensual meditational orgies. I am left alone, isolated by my own memories. I am left to write or construct my own past as a stranger who is unable to comprehend the things that happened in my own past. Thus, the constructed defined shaped past is a myth. I’d say, memories are mythical creatures. They are unreal, yet real. But, I want you reader, to assume it was real.
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I see you out there, tormenting me. Sometimes, I hide from you but I see you as a globular spirited living being scurrying around in search of me. I see you from my hideaway anxiously waiting for my right moment and confront you. I hide from you to feel you in my right disposition. Though you trouble me, I crave for you all the time. I groom myself well before I meet you like I freshen up well before I meet my lovers for the first time.
Memories, I own you. I am your creator. I let you be undefined so that I can give you shapes. You failed in knowing me. I am a structuralist using the substances of post-structuralism.
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