Memories

I firmly believe that each day is an opportunity, not only for growing and seeing the world's beauty, but to learn new things. The day my curiosity is sated is the day I will fade away, because I am no longer needed. Seeing as the Universe is what it is and human nature is what it is, I don't think this thirst for knowledge will ever be satisfied.

Example - Yesterday, Boy and I were discussing the possibility of progression of time at a point in which space time was not yet solidified. Two primary thoughts came from this, both of which I tweeted (see what I did there?)

1. If space time was not a thing until after Big Bang, how can we tell how old the known universe is? Or how big the whole Universe is?

2. Try to imagine a point in which everything and nothing, all time and no time, is the same. Makes me feel insignificant, and like a miracle.

But these thoughts are for another post. I just wanted to give an example of why I love learning new things.

Today, I want to write about the power of memories.

Sometimes, what I learn makes me feel awkward, sad, or physically ill. The other day, I learned that old memories can have this effect on me. Going through boxes I haven't opened in almost six years, I find items intricately bound to memories. Some memories are really good, some hurt because they remind me of loved ones I have lost to time and aging. And some are just a punch to my chest, a hand of barbed ice crushing my heart.

Two days ago, I dug out a small book bound in black leather from one of the more banged up boxes. As soon as I saw it, I started to feel sick. In the back of my mind, a small voice was screaming for me not to open the book, but I ignored it.

It was just a simple note book, filled with words. Every line of every page was filled with words, hastily scribbled in a messy font. My handwriting. My words. Some pages had titles at the top and some had dates at the bottom.  None of the words held any meaning on their own, but together they formed an image of a person who even in a book meant only for her, she carefully weighed her words, making them equally light and dark. A balance of neutrality.

I threw the book in the pile of items I will burn as soon as I can, then I had to fight waves of nausea the rest of the evening.

Memories are just electric paths formed in our brains by repeated exposure, like paths traveled by deers in a forest. Yet, these paths trigger all kinds of responses in our bodies. Memories shape who we are, experiences carved into our minds and bodies. The rhyme says that "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." I call bull on that. I look at the scars littering my arms and legs and feel nothing. No shame, no remorse, no pain. I read words I wrote as a lost child age 15, and I have problems breathing.  

My brain is a bit odd. My ability to compartmentalize is absolute, sometimes in ways that spook people I talk to. It is almost a self imposed fugue state, separating the states in my mind in order to keep a clear head. (I am well aware that I am not suffering from dissociative fugue. I am not trying to self diagnose. Fugue is just the best way I can think of to explain how my mind works.) I guess I developed this way of compartmentalizing memories to save myself from pain. This way, I can pick out any memory I want and look at it, enjoy it, then put it back.

Memories make us who we are. They shape our personalities, our thought processes, and how we see the world. Memories have the power to hurt us, but also to lift us up.

In the words of Shane Koyczan:

but our lives will only ever always
continue to be
a balancing act
that has less to do with pain

and more to do with beauty

                                    - To This Day

DFTBA