Because it's so easy to curate an identity, to reinvent history, to tell stories and forget them. Especially about yourself. Sometimes I don't even know if my memories are real or things I once read in books and internalized. But it's not difficult to have a sort of affection for time, especially lost time, to unspool the threads of narrative and watch the direction they fall in if they didn't have the opportunity to materialize into something concrete, something that could have been worn and would have been remembered. Something that would have eventually torn or would have to be given away.
I like this sentiment:
ReplyDeleteSometimes I don't even know if my memories are real or things I once read in books and internalized.
I often experience this. Sometimes a good piece of writing (or music, or a painting for that matter) carries with it a sense of familiarity which allows it to instantly coalesce with one's memories and experiences.