It’s strange how realities and experiences eventually become nothing but memories. And it’s even stranger that memories are never the same when you recall them. Details become blurry; characters get portrayed differently; settings are mixed up; and the plot takes an unexpected turn. There’s always something extra or something missing.There are themes and morales that come up or get scratched in the telling. Everything gets simpler or more complex upon circumspection. However, in the end, the story is just a story. No matter the length, no matter the strength of its characters, no matter the unforeseen twists, no matter the beginning, middle and ending, and no matter the vigour and tediousness of one’s entire narration.
When asked to look back, we can only hope to provide the most faithful recollection of that reality or experience that once was the truth. We can try but may never get genuinely close. Sad, I know, but aren’t most stories like that? They take upon versions that become histories or myths or fiction. And these versions in themselves become something else up to the point no one remembers or cares about the origin anymore.
And when the story gets retold and wound up pulling us down, we can always find solace in knowing that the only person who has to believe our version is us. And that we have every right to speak of it over and over again until none of it is strange or painful anymore.
In case of remembrance, we must let the story touch us and take us back; this way, we better understand why it is just another story in our book, a portion of a distant past that time has buried for and in us.