Sometimes memories are not your own.
They rise up, either like jagged waves,
or lone s-waves riding along, almost subliminal, without acknowledgment
in those moments,
suspended; everything. Time stops. dissolving into space-less containers.
emotions erupt, or disappear. Everything is playing at once, or nothing but static.
the earth's crust cracks and 100,000 forest fires burn out.
this is death(and life); dissonance and melody. hatred and harmony.
everything spills into the same container
and it overflows in its wild meaning and meaninglessness.
It's singular, immediate, constant and like a string.
you can pick it up anywhere, and it can be cut,
at one end or in the middle,
fiddle with the tangled bits in shifts,
as time slows and our thoughts drift
doesn't change the thing it is.
It doesn't ever change, but basks in the perpetual immutability.
You change around it and it changes everything as time ties
itself in knots of forgetting.
Things are infinite and split. Separate and whole, at the same time.
Words are trapped, dodgy, feeble in their eternal task.
And strident, captivating and disjointed in their remembering.
Words, like people, remember us.
And we remember them.
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