Stellar Flower Still Garden

The difficulty lies in trying to patch the discrepancies between the things that are vast, heavy and important, and all the innocent and light bits in life that are happy whims. The way music becomes landscapes and memories when you listen to it again after taking it on a trip, the people we associate with the things we own and look at, how their clothes, walk, voice all seem to turn up in strangers, little things detected here and there, a turn of phrase even which we’ve somehow managed to assign to someone or something, none of it big and solid enough for you to point to and say it is that person, that place, that day, those words, or what have you, and then all of it, without the circumstances of your memories, being almost certainly meaningless to another.

I often think how peculiar it is that whilst we all feel so universal, and I do think we fundamentally believe we are universal, or normal to be clearer, because we expect others to be able to understand us which relies on the rationale that we aren’t alien to them, so much so that we consider it should almost be instinctual and intuitive for another to know us, to understand us, nothing learned or artificial, but that even with this, the things we carry with us, memories mostly, can only be known to a handful of people at any one time, they being the ones that happened to be there, nothing deliberate or staged, purely coincidental.

A coincidence resultant from an unfathomable amount of years, creation, prehistory & history, I think it’s interesting that right now if you are reading this, the whole universe and every condition, every moment, every law, had to be and exist in exactly the same way for you to be here now, every single atom, at every single point in time, all of it precisely that way for us to be here, it’s just mind shredding when you look back from the present, and the sort of, beauty in it is that at the time, it would have been no more deliberate, no more important, than, once again, you reading this now. You are defining a future this instant, one well beyond comprehension, all of us incidental blind watchmakers.

Yet we’re all so specific, you can’t give your memories to another person, no matter how hard you try, but even if you could the narrative of the memory won’t make much sense anyway, as for me at least, I tend to remember details that weren’t that important at the time, the way the sky looked, the heat in the air, the cooling breeze passing by the tree trunks, being beneath the shade of the grove, the hard wooden bench, a careful distance, neither too close nor far away, simple things in the moment that went unannounced, nothing pivotal enough that you could put it into a sentence and give it to another person for them to understand, at best they’re just recollections of interludes between the story.

The conversation, the people, the expectation and all else, those are the things you’re supposed to describe to others if they are to understand what it is that made the moment special enough, powerful enough, to be recalled, and again, for me at least, those details so often seem to slip away and I feel like so many of my memories are now just quiet interludes, the fleeting now in detail and the pivotal now just a shadow in the shade, something you’d have to be looking for to notice.