Swirling thoughts will oft
set one to wondering just
what are memories?
~An untitled haiku, by Colin Pollard
Funny things, memories. I remember starting this post a couple of times, but I can’t remember what went into it. Seems as though this place is in need of a Spring cleaning. Admittedly, it’s not quite Spring yet, and this cold snap is reminiscent of the weather round about the turn of the year. Still, better early than never.
I’ve been finding myself recently delving into quite deep introspection, not really sure why, but the mental journeys are… oddly enlightening. You reach a place where something just clicks, and you think - “Ah, so that’s why I’m like that.” Each time one of these little revelations happens, another part of you is accepted, and you take one step closer to… something. Wholeness? A greater sense of self? I don’t know for sure. Then a different type of mental journey starts, as a sort of unwinding from the higher reaches of self-analysis. I fall back into memories. Climb hills I’ve climbed before, run paths I’ve ran along. Such familiar places that the pictures of them in my mind are beautifully clear. Unfamiliar, even fictional, ones stand out, as though I know them intimately. I’m there, running along the ridge, the ground passing swiftly beneath me. I’m there, on top of the mountain, watching the clouds drift, their shadows passing slowly across the landscape. I’m there, sitting on a ledge halfway up a cliff-face, leaning back against the rock. And I feel at peace. It may sound idealistic, eccentric, delusional even, but it is what it is. Memories are powerful things.
