Down Memory Lane

memories are liquid. they tend to slip us by, they are tinged with what we feel at recall, and they take the shape we want them to.

you don't realize the depth of a memory at first glance. but then you mull over it a bit, and the kaleidoscope surfaces. you turn it this way and that, just reveling in all the things it can show you from a single situation.

you examine it, and time becomes your magnifying glass. every memory has more meaning as the time passes, like a bottle of old wine that can get you drunk on past, better, simpler times.

they can be a storm riddled sea or a tranquil lake. either way, you sink beneath the surface and lose sight of what's real. you see turmoil or you see calm. you see the the recollection as crystal clear or as spider-webbed with the ripples of your disturbed conscience. your state of mind is your lens.

a memory is a page in a journal. its reopened and opened until its old and worn and falling apart. it may have its own ink splotches and dog ears, but it reminds and instructs.

a memory is a catalyst. it speeds up understanding and brings out meaning. it guides you to answers and shows you the road, if interpreted correctly.

memories are laughter and silence. they're the real and imagined intertwined together is a desperate fashion, unable to tell what you saw and what you wanted. they're life and solace and tears and smiles and everything in between.

most importantly, they're Polaroids. a snapshot in time; a glance at you. not as you are or will be, but as who you were. and sometimes, who you were is what you need to recollect.

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I apologize for lack of punctuation, but poetic license is a thing I took advantage of. I'm a bit scared for this because it's extremely abstract, but oh well. Peace! ☮