Sunless
New member
- Joined
- Nov 21, 2009
- Messages
- 46
- MBTI Type
- INxx
What could possibly be the function of remembering? Memory isnt the opposite of forgetting, but its lining. Memory is rewritten much like history is rewritten, each one of us having to make do with delirium, with its drift.. madness protects, as fever does.
One person has a face, and also a thousand faces and beneath each of these faces a memory. And in place of what we were told had been forged into a collective memory, a thousand memories of men who parade their personal laceration in the great wound of history.
I'm writing you all this from another world, a world of appearances. In a way the two worlds communicate with each other. Memory is to one what history is to the other: an impossibility.
But someone had better words about this than these. Simple words, no affectation. Samura Koichi's words: "Who said that time heals all wounds? It would be better to say that time heals everything except wounds. With time, the hurt of separation loses its real limits. With time, the desired body will soon disappear, and if the desiring body has already ceased to exist for the other, then what remains is a wound... disembodied."
That morning I took the subway to Sabana Grande's station. One of the busiest stations. Even when the streets were empty, I waited at the red light for the spirit of broken cars to pass me by. And later on, I went to the post office, and even when I have never received a letter, and was certain that there wouldnt be one with my name on it, I still stood by the window and asked, for one must honor the spirit of torn letters and the anima of that postcard that was always left unsent.
Let the vain mindset of the west scold me for not privileging being over not being, or what is spoken to silence... Oh well... after all, history only tastes bitter to those who expected it to be sugar coated.
One person has a face, and also a thousand faces and beneath each of these faces a memory. And in place of what we were told had been forged into a collective memory, a thousand memories of men who parade their personal laceration in the great wound of history.
I'm writing you all this from another world, a world of appearances. In a way the two worlds communicate with each other. Memory is to one what history is to the other: an impossibility.
But someone had better words about this than these. Simple words, no affectation. Samura Koichi's words: "Who said that time heals all wounds? It would be better to say that time heals everything except wounds. With time, the hurt of separation loses its real limits. With time, the desired body will soon disappear, and if the desiring body has already ceased to exist for the other, then what remains is a wound... disembodied."
That morning I took the subway to Sabana Grande's station. One of the busiest stations. Even when the streets were empty, I waited at the red light for the spirit of broken cars to pass me by. And later on, I went to the post office, and even when I have never received a letter, and was certain that there wouldnt be one with my name on it, I still stood by the window and asked, for one must honor the spirit of torn letters and the anima of that postcard that was always left unsent.
Let the vain mindset of the west scold me for not privileging being over not being, or what is spoken to silence... Oh well... after all, history only tastes bitter to those who expected it to be sugar coated.
