There is a major problem with memories. They are painful, yet useless, and timeless. The only thing one can do with them is mutilate them, with knives and fork, and if the need be, with ribbons and bows.

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands,
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

I have tried to be brave. Be happy, be unthinking, be empty. But one cant be mortal and do away with memories. I don’t know what it takes, I don’t know if it is possible. If I can ever be brave and happy at the same time. Yet I know quite a few things, a few stones that could be been left unturned or better still, left untouched. But being brave and stupid at the same time is so easy.

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all: –

The failings of a common man are invisible, or rather not so, I think sometime. It is only too obvious to overlook, and too painful to forget once you know. And yet one is too weak. Weak and brave at the same time. How? Rather why?

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous –
Almost, at times, the Fool.

Yet, like a pattern it keeps repeating itself. And one keeps stumbling at the same step. Is it conscious, is it purposeful, is it perfunctory? Why have it if you cant keep it? And why pine for it if you know you will lose it!

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Once I had spent an idle afternoon with a dear friend on how we tamper our memories to suit us. Maybe that is how it should be. Maybe that is how it is. And I have known and ignored all along.

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