Abandoned
“I’ve always felt a fondness for things and places old and slightly tattered, where the moldy, dusty and sweet scent of the passing of time lingers in the air and every abandoned every day object is woven with stories and secrets.”
Memory is such a fickle enterprise.
How long will a memory last? Do memories even stand a chance against Time - or do they gently erode - crumble and slip slowly away with our last breath? Or - as we hold and revisit old moments now gone - do they shift with a veneer of time growing ever more opaque with each polishing thought? Changed from what once was - to - what might have been - to - golden hued and fuzzy - those were the days.
But those days - were they how we remember them? Or has the film of Time blurred what once was and what we will never know again? Memory - emblematic, capricious and flighty - yet lining the shelves of our minds defining us, reminding us of this thing called past.
What happens when all that is left is the remains of memory - discarded on the edge of the prairie. Puzzle pieces of a life left scattered. Echoes of souls left to tarnish and tear - to face everyday unremembered until one day the remembrance is as fine as dust. A forgotten and flitting shadow precariously tied to worn timbers, dusty mugs and tattered lace.
Standing under a wintery sun surrounded by a home left to fates - I cannot help but wonder…
How do we hold witness for a memory?
Or.
Is to speak of a thing what keeps a memory alive?
So. Then.
What happens then, when we abandon a memory’s voice?
