Memories are remnants of what or whenever we were impressed with.
They are selective, fabricated, mixed up, with certain fleeting facts sprinkled throughout. We essentially carved a certain narrative we keep repeating to ourselves, and through the use of whose ever ears open to hear us, we bounce things back and forth feeding each other psychological needs, emotional hunger or what not. Our upbringing that grew each of us, some by the people who took us in, most by who brought us to the world, all aided in, hurled into, gently pushed? us the various zigzagging trajectory to where we are, and the rest. Maybe predictable in hindsight, but looking ahead remains a guessing game. So we do each day what we think we have to.
Things change, the world change, “the only certainty is uncertainty”. I have not taken this into my heart but it keeps knocking me up and around every so often. Maybe my heart is dense, blocked, or desensitized. Or actually what does that even mean? What is actually normal? To feel all the time? Or the gradient of selective things as we were conditioned to?
As I constantly run a mental review what it all ever was and how did I get to where I stand today – to how it is. I take stock in situations, events, made memorable by the help of whatever cameras near me. Film, mainly, because it’s gritty, and uncertain Ed when processed, like me.