Me, Undone

He revisits dislocated memory. Disjointed and fractured - seething and ready to be reconstructed again. In any way. It doesn’t care. It stumbles and gathers to its feet.   Now fully dislodged - it tells the story again. Not for truth. But for pleasure. It is dark. He tilts his head as they arrive untangled and bustling in the frame of the door. They slither over and pull up a chair next to him. And they begin their play.   Pulling and tugging - twisting and turning. Slow smile and glance over at their new feed. He darts his eyes across the room -  f ractions of seconds looped and blown open.   He clinches his fists tight -   digs his fingernails into his palms - his feet jerking violently off the floor. Teeth chattering like fractured bones. They are exacting. Each one taking what the last one left behind.   When they are done, his chair falls to the ground. Next to him, a puddle of coagulated blood. The taste of brine and metal in his...

There is a woman who cannot forget. All of the moments of her life are a constant amalgamation playing in her mind, every hour, every minute, and every second of her existence in this physical world. I watched her story a few nights ago, with mouth agape. How intense would it be to have all of my moments present always? To remember every sunrise, every autumn day, the feeling of cool on my skin, the warmth of sand, my first kiss, my lover’s touch--a heightened form of consciousness perhaps. What I wouldn’t give, I thought, to close the passing of time. But then, just as she began to explain her gift, darkness came into her face and my fascination ended. Her memories have been to her a haunting. Because she can never forget, she can never begin anew. Her life is a constant regurgitation. There are no cocoons or metamorphoses. She is as she always was, trapped in the moment before. Unabated memory has stripped her of the ability to transform. Meaning is only that which you mean i...