Does My Memory Serve Me?

Is it the memory that serves me

Or is it the other way ‘round…?

For the greater part of those shades

That falter in and out of reflective moments

Seem more fantasy than actual reality.

And I often ask myself

Who’s recollective thoughts are these?

Additionally,

Many question the validity of circumstances

Conjured up yester-tales

from my mind’s storage facility

which I must confess is rarely tended to,

dusted off or wandered through.

Because,

To tell you the truth,

It is a great effort for me

To muster up the energies

Required for walking in the present…

Not that I have anything against yon Past,

But as I’ve stated,

It seems more fiction in the re-telling

than a factual account of  history.

And there it is;

Perhaps it may be true of any recounting,

That what is imprinted

 

On one’s neural tissues

 

Is merely our translation of a moment

Drawn by memory’s hand

To fit perception’s cubby holes where

Our histories lay waiting

To be knocked from their hiding places,

Perhaps shared or pondered and then set to rest

Again.

But not the same,

No never the same,

Because that’s the funny thing about

Re-reading the story some time later;

I’m never quite the same person

Experiencing that moment.

And so I ask,

Can I truly revisit the past?

I wonder,

But isn’t that another tale all together…