Memories

They are rather magical, lively things. They often, for me, come without warning. Like when I'm doing a chore, or listening to music, or reading a book; and sometimes, at some instant when I've tasted a particular food, or smelled a particular odor, they suddenly become alive, each springing from a hidden recess in my mind.

Some of them come in manageable bits, which I can either encourage or suppress, depending on whether they are pleasant or otherwise. And some come in overwhelming torrents, leaving me with no other choice but to just hold on tight, and allow them to take me wherever they may fancy. I shed a tear or two at times, or else enter a trance-like state, oblivious to everything around me.

As I am trying to rid myself of excessive sentimental foolishness, including outdated, blind beliefs, and some useless parts of my conscience even, I consider memories as incongruous inconveniences, like specks of dust in my eyes, or a useless body appendage. They do nothing but add to the burdens of everyday living.

I started life on a happy note, in a family which is among the kindliest in the world. Hence, there isn't any direction left to go to, except toward atrophy; you know, like from bad to worse, plenty to poverty, healthy to ill, happy to sad, life to death. It is unstoppable. And memories merely serve to make more pronounced the rancor.

If I had no memories to drag along with me wherever I may go, then each day will be new. I can start fresh every morning, brimming with hope and anticipation, my vision unclouded by regret, or remorse, or fear. I can realize my full potential, without being weighed down by emotion or conscience. I may then become despicable to some people, a self-centered, ungrateful slob. But in reality, I will have become the perfect organism for life's largely unforgiving conditions. If there were no memories, life will become very tolerable, and will proceed mechanically, efficiently, profitably, unhampered by notions of right and wrong.

But memories are like addictive drugs. We crave them. We are enamored by them. They seem central and essential to our existence; as when we glamorize and exaggerate our lives through tales of our exploits, our conquests, and other largely misguided adventures and activities; as when we would rather waste our time reminiscing unrightable events, and other scenes steeped in inane nostalgia. This option is attractive enough, though, as it offers some sort of respite from the sustained banality of life.

When work does not occupy me, I lose the battle against memories. They dart from here and there, from different points of time in my life. The rational in me abhors the exercise; the emotional finds it delightful.