testing memory

 It's during the best of my days which I count come endlessly.

And the mystery of memory dies.

What is memory to me is the mystery.

I often wonder where my memories go.

Whether they even happened at all.

But it's the same as in language.

You use memories to commit a suicide of thoughts.

Some are distressing,

more distressing than are the others.

(Yet, language sometimes does that to you.)

It confuses the reader into believing something you never intended.

Like riding a toy rocking horse.

Back and forth it goes.

It ruins the entire image,

that small child riding a horse.

Because you forget what it means.

Then, you fast forward. . . 

and become something else?

I suppose that is the idea of a child wanting to ride a horse.

They pretend to be good riders.

And they never remember it.

Only the fun it was to pretend you were on the horse you mounted.

And, then playtime is over.

What kind of a story is that.

But - the memory lives to tell it.

What is memory but the truth coming back,

from the depth's of your mind.

You never considered the details.

The memories made themselves.

What you felt.

So maybe that is the big reveal in our lives.

The skeptics overcome the critics.

And the horse you made pretend with came to memory, again.

The horse came back.

Was it real or imaginary.

Now rewind to the beast that you thought you wanted,

to ride.

The real thing.

The monster that hides in your closet at night,

only to reach out from under you.

There you found yourself back on the horse.

You found your horse.

Coming back to you.

Before the memory you had secretly placed itself somewhere.

It's a profound thing, memory.

Memory is -   a horse, the hero on the horse.

(end.)

- Marco