The Museum of Vestigial Desire


tags: twig

Memory is a curse only if the archives are toxic. Considering the kind of lives we have led, our archives surely are toxic. We do not remember much and that what we do remember is only a fragment of a waking nightmare. When we were overcome by emotion, when we could not see beyond the horizon, we were stuck and frustrated. We breathed the same air over and over again. The stale air and our static act triggered the nightmare. When the nightmare got triggered, we were standing in the kitchen asking a question again and again. In fact, we repeated the question so many times that it started ringing in our ears and after some time we wanted the question to be answered more than anything else. Why we wanted to know the answer to that question is something that even we didn't know. We persisted until we got tired of listening to the same question again and again and our ears itched to hear some new words. In the face of obsession stands boredom. From that time, we have been very careful about what we hear. We don't just require a certain richness in vocabulary, we require a set of ups and downs as well. We do not have patience for flat assertions, for absolute declarations now. Now we believe voice to be a part of song that breaks forth like a lyric from the mouths of the poets and the lost.

Memory and imagination are not very far apart. I can imagine my memory but I can also remember my imagination. But the other way round is true as well. So when I remember, I might be actually spinning a story. Spinning a story is seen as a selfish act. It is seen to be motivated only by a desire to project and colonise, to capture and colour the world with a personal perspective. The documentary if no interest anymore. We can imagine.

We can document our imagination. That document would still be of interest. But we cannot document our memories. Remembering is another memory. So every time we remember a memory, we create another one. And so it goes on, we get locked inside a list of links, an array.

If something good happened to you, then this a curse. It becomes a chase, a cat and mouse game. There is nothing to hold on to. Ever.

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