We don't care about the titles, we care about the contents
Reality (or more accurately the memory of it) is like a photograph,.
The button clicks, The shutter closes. The light is pinned. And the image is etched. captured. Done.
You own it (or at least that's the idea/hope).
That glinting afternoon, That voice, That particular slant of October.
Yet the moment it passes into your skull,
it begins to decay, to corrupt.
It rots the way a tooth rots, from the inside, invisibly,
until one morning you bite down and something finally gives.
The memory you'd have sworn on a stack of bibles was the truth is wrong.
Subtly, magnificently, completely.
We often overlook the fact the break and fractures are part of the process.
Every time you haul a memory back up from the dark,
with every act of remembrance you rebreak the vessel and reseal it.
And after each time, the brain floods the cracks and gaps with gold.
The warm amber of wishful neurochemistry,
Glimmering scar tissue,
The lacquer of longing,
Liquid romanization.
This is why the past is always beautiful. Not because it was (because that's rarely the case)
but because we are maniacs with a gilding brush.
The trauma softens. The boredom vanishes. The humiliations transmute.
What remains is a cracked and luminous thing,
more beautiful for having been broken.
Kintsugi Nostalgia.
Break, Mend it with gold. and the damage becomes part of the art.
Recollection by that logic is necromancy. You're summoning the animated corpse of it all. The patchwork beautiful monstrous amalgamation comes shambling toward you with your own face on it. And you love it more than the reality of the first time ever deserved.
Such sentimental creatures. like crows we collect what shines and glimmers.
The button clicks, The shutter closes. The light is pinned. And the image is etched. captured. Done.
You own it (or at least that's the idea/hope).
That glinting afternoon, That voice, That particular slant of October.
Yet the moment it passes into your skull,
it begins to decay, to corrupt.
It rots the way a tooth rots, from the inside, invisibly,
until one morning you bite down and something finally gives.
The memory you'd have sworn on a stack of bibles was the truth is wrong.
Subtly, magnificently, completely.
We often overlook the fact the break and fractures are part of the process.
Every time you haul a memory back up from the dark,
with every act of remembrance you rebreak the vessel and reseal it.
And after each time, the brain floods the cracks and gaps with gold.
The warm amber of wishful neurochemistry,
Glimmering scar tissue,
The lacquer of longing,
Liquid romanization.
This is why the past is always beautiful. Not because it was (because that's rarely the case)
but because we are maniacs with a gilding brush.
The trauma softens. The boredom vanishes. The humiliations transmute.
What remains is a cracked and luminous thing,
more beautiful for having been broken.
Kintsugi Nostalgia.
Break, Mend it with gold. and the damage becomes part of the art.
Recollection by that logic is necromancy. You're summoning the animated corpse of it all. The patchwork beautiful monstrous amalgamation comes shambling toward you with your own face on it. And you love it more than the reality of the first time ever deserved.
Such sentimental creatures. like crows we collect what shines and glimmers.
36-40, M
