Peering into my face from behind or sneaking around into the back of my head, memories are clinging to me like shadows at all hours.
Inevitably they pop up, then disappear in a next mpment, as if they had never been.
That being said, they are my history, separating me from others and keeping me together.
Without my memories, would I be a fugitive being, living from one moment to other, since a sequence of memories seems to make historical me?
Do only my memories make me feel who I am?
If my memories would be lost, would I cease to be me?
Memories seem to be equivocal like a castle made of the countless, unremarkable sands of the seashore.Against my will to be a consistent me, my memories are so obscure and fragile.
Clearly I can recall some pleasant or sad memories of recent days,
but I can only recall fragments of my childhood in the dark.
Often I can’t recall happy moments.
Anxiety chases away delight and happiness into uncertainty. If only memories make up who I am,
My entire being would be fuzzy and incoherent.
Without memories, would I consist merely in a moment-to-moment consciousness?
But then what about the coherence of myself?
There is no guarantee for the consistence of my personality.
Whenever my consciousness changes, does my personality also change?
Bitter memories bring lament and regret to me and I blush with shame.
Insurmountable past stands like a huge wall.
My memories gradually rise up like cumulonimbus clouds,
Covering the sky in black and eventually hitting the ground with raindrops.
When the rain stops, the sun shines as if nothing had happened,
And a fresh breeze blows in.Memories are like shimmering of hot air.
Must I live only in recollection of the past, even though I do feel constant me now?
Am I just an empty box which will be suffused only by recollection I desperately glean?
How about the future?
Are we not rushing into the future?
And the future is turning into the present, leaving a mark of passing in our brain.
So our memories should be our future. It’s wrong when we say memories belong to the past.
Because the past was the present, which had been also the future.
Aren’t we entangled in the cult of the false division of time?
Memory is not of the past, but of the future.
We cannot divide our presence in pieces.
An unstoppable stream, that is me.
It is spilling over out of my hands.
I have no way to interrupt surging waves of time.
All I can do is to give a glance of fervent ressentiment at the fast-moving train of time.
No time is left for me to write them down.
It’s like a disguised diary, dissipating images leaving a peace of trace,
An overflowing stream of emotions,
A never-ending grudge against an unspoken event.
To recall is not to bring back a lost past.
The past is too complex to be retraced as it was.
All remembrances are fictive.
We cannot remember even one in a million of an event.
The past is something, which has been never recalled.
It is sunk like a heap of tombstones deeply in absolute darkness.
There is no way to creep up on it.
My ongoing remembrance is not the past, but generated prepossession,
Nothing but a fabricated tale and just a projection of the present as an escaping future.
What I’m witnessing is the future,
Although we cannot foresee the far future like we cannot see the past.
Is my consciousness an illusion projected on the spark each moment?
If I expect my continuous personality,
I must concoct each fragment of loose remembarance, lump it together to make a new story.
Then recalling is nothing but the process of founding myself.
There is neither the past, nor the future, nor the present,
But only the self that is creating and being created.
I am not just recollection, but a creative being beyond the past and the future.