Editing Your Memories

Sometimes we look back at our past and see things that were purely fictional. It may be a reaction to the trauma of the original scenes that creates a fictional reality. I have often wondered how much of my past is locked up and isolated in my brain. In a compartment of a nook or a segment of that slimy mucousy material. All of that reality will be vanished like a computer memory card that ends up incinerated in the municipal trash incinerator. Vaporized into not even a memory because it is not a collective memory. Each memory is personal.

Those memories were not based on a reality, but were a reality at one point in time. That very remarkable conjoining of reality and fact is what is so enamoring, so lovely, about history, whether it be your personal history or the history of another being or thing. The place in time. The feeling. The senses in full emotion capturing each and every moment that will never be the same moment again. The atomic moment. The milimoment. The micromoment.

There cannot be a macromoment. A macromoment would be slowing down of time. It could not be a picture because a picture does not capture a cool breeze on your face, or a cloud moving gently across the sky, or a tornado whipping and roaring throwing bits of manmade plastic and junk through the air at unmanageable speeds.