Of terrible things and memory

Consider for example, the difference among the proclamations, “the night contains terrible things, and it is presently the witching hour,” “the night contains terrible things, and I have so many demons, for I am a troubled man,” and “the night contains terrible things, and I am them”.   Remember them; we would create a whole fiasco revolving around these.  So again, put simply, the first one says “I am subject to all­-around terribleness,” the second, “I am haunted by my own everything,” the third one, “the night contains terrible things, and I am them.”

Apart from the usual testing involving random ink blots and more random-colored beads (my friend actually had a whole psychological evaluation based on her choice of a pink stone), you can learn a lot of things about what kind of person someone is, depending on what he says first among those three.  I, for one, would choose to say the third statement first, just because in my heart of hearts I think it’s the coolest thing to say.  There are countless instances of my superficiality, and it would do you good in the long and short run to believe me, no matter how, in the long and short run, you might think me awesome awesomeness.  

But then, since I am also a man of second thought (my first thought being about ten in number), I also admit to instances (and then to many instances) to saying the first one (although just above a whisper), especially when I’m walking home alone, hearing sounds no tree should be allowed to make naturally, even when it’s walking. 

But then I can also admit to straightforward instances to saying the second one, especially when I think I’m still in high school and suddenly think black is the coolest color in the whole world.

Or when I get like this.  Memory is a terrible thing.  It’s the only thing that haunts persons, if you think about it.  After all, anticipation is memory, only facing backwards.  Angst and regret become the same, in that metaphysical nightmare of reducing everything to oneness.

I don’t have photographic memory – and photographic memory by itself is nothing special.  Of course it doesn't look like that when an instructor decides to base ninety-five percent of your final grade on how intimate you are with the periodic table, but photographic memory remembers everything, and hence can disregard, and hence hence value, nothing.  That is the basis of priorities: the ability to disregard, not remember.

Now, selective memory – that would be the ticket.   Everyone has it.  I have it.  Unfortunately, I also have a memory that doesn't listen to selectivity.  That is, I forget some stuff – make that a lot of stuff – but those that I remember I remember without me even giving myself permission to retain them.  Which is a wallop, remembering stuff you remember knowing, and remembering stuff you don’t even remember knowing the necessity of remembering in the first place.

The point of all this is – I remember, generally.  And it haunts me that I remember, as only things you try hard to forget can.  For trying to forget is always futile:  to forget, and forget completely, is to forget what you have forgotten, to forget that you have forgotten, and forget why you would have had to forget.

So no matter how cool the third pronouncement sounds, it’s the second one that’s a whopper.  I am terrible, and all the more so, because I remember.  And remember well.   That is what makes my nights terrible: myself.  For I am nothing but what I remember.

And without time, without life, memory would be nothing.

And hey, look, the walking tree found a friend.  And together they trespassed on my meadow.