What It Takes

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Health and Fitness  |  House: Booksie Classic


It was still sunlight at 7:30 around here. Also, Q-Q.

Submitted: March 16, 2018

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Submitted: March 16, 2018

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What It Takes

 

So many things go unsaid,

When regret follows dread.

Something is said, makes a person feel high,

But did they know for every truth is a lie?

 

I’ve seen what it takes,

To make it here.

But sometimes it’s not enough.

 

Experience isn’t worth much if you do nothing with that experience. Learning from it is what counts. Simply living through it, content by the belief that this is the experience, creates a falsehood in the minds of the living. It is what we call memory, as we can recall that it happened, although almost always in a way that puts us in the right. As if we were never wrong in the first place.

 

That is true of every memory, whether it is good, bad, or in between. Even then, however, that is not true.

 

It is not true to you, the reader, because I have not said what makes the quality of a memory good or bad, or anywhere in between: merely that the memory has existed. Even then, I cannot account for all my memories, and therefore I am lying, because I cannot define what a good or bad memory is, or anywhere in between: merely that is happened.

 

Even then, I remember things that didn’t happen at all, not even remotely related to me. These things come from imagination, and it takes memory to make imagination into being. Even then, the imagination is just that: it is not truly there, but is instead a manifestation of memory, which in itself is often times put through the filter of our own ego and guise in an effort to make all memories good.

 

Yet, what makes a memory good, if you do nothing except remember that it was good? And what is defined as good, either by myself to you, or you to yourself? What have others taught you is a good memory? Would you remember them teaching you that a memory such as yours is good, and is therefore equally good to them? Will they recall a memory of a time someone told them that their memories are good, although only by the validation of another? Did they internalize that?

 

Do I ask too many questions, and therefore make this read a bad memory? Something troubling, perhaps, or vexing, or linguistically inaccurate, to the point that you desperately toil over the vast collection of all of your good and bad memories, and everything in between, looking to justify the way you feel right now, unable to answer questions which you have known your whole life, but have been unable to put to words, either because you have no memory of having done so before, or because nobody ever told you that you could?

 

Well, I say you can. You can learn, but not from me. This is not a lesson, because that would require experience, and experience is derived from memory of having learned from the memory of a time where you may have been at fault, or otherwise incompetent in some way because someone told you that you did something incorrectly, or conducted yourself in a manner that did not align with their memory of having done the same thing as you, which, in itself, was derived from the experience of a memory connected to their memory of someone having said or done the same thing to give them that validation of experience in the first place.

 

Therefore, I have all the questions, because I can remember having asked them, even if I have yet to ask them. However, I have no answers, because I have no experience, because I have no memory of having had a correct answer. Which, in itself is paradoxical, as if I had the right answer, I would have no need for experience, for I would already be learned in all manners, and have no need to remember any memory, for they would have become obsolete.

 

What I’m trying to say is, memory runs tangential to logic, and sensibility. At some point, they may cross, but only every so often, or perhaps for so short a period of time that you may be so learned in your values that you would consider this span to be a lapse of judgement and reason and logic and sensibility and morals.

 

That is a detriment to the mind of the man, however. It hurts us, to think that we cannot call something indescribable because everything must have an explanation. This is simply untrue, and if there is one thing I can attest to experience, and having been borne from the value of a memory, it is that some things are simply indescribable.

 

Think of describing color to the blind, words to a newborn, or your own childhood to those of your kids. Limitations everywhere, structures everywhere, most out of your control, but all of which affect you. It is a feeling that makes you feel as if you have failed in some way, have become inept, and that your experiences have failed you because your memories of yourself have failed, and each day you beat on, every moment one moment closer to the end, where those experiences wouldn’t have mattered, and those memories can’t be recalled, because they are no longer a necessity.

 

Limitations. The limitations of life, only having so much time to make experiences real, to make life itself real. Limits on language, communicating the world around you as being vast and free, when in reality it is limited: limited by how you communicate to others your memory of the places you’ve been, the foods you’ve tasted, the things you’ve felt inside. There is no viable way to communicate these feelings and tastes and senses, and so we feel lesser, and that incompetence is reflected in our need to compensate for good memories.

 

Good memories that we never learn from, because there is no experience to be derived from them. It is an injustice to ourselves, and to the world, to make it out as being solidly defined, perhaps even on a spectrum, and therefore would not be as limiting. Even then, a spectrum has its limits, and to stretch that spectrum, like that of rubber or rope, would eventually cause it to snap, or to combust within itself, the infinitesimal space of time pushing constantly and instantaneously inward and outward simultaneously as the way in which we define the world is fractured, and then becomes secular and narrowed, and every memory from every person would begin to define the feelings and the tastes and the senses as being something entirely different than that of the person beside them, and so the spectrum itself becomes a paradox.

 

The moral of the story is clear,

My sanity is elsewhere, except for here.

 


© Copyright 2018 Dan Zuniga. All rights reserved.

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