I guess I am in a bit of a funny mood tonight. Nothing untoward, not angry, frustrated, grumpy nor down. I am just... melancholic. I am supposed to be putting away the vast pile of laundry that has accumulated over the last couple of day. I am supposed to be going for a run, making dinner, reading, writing, all sorts of things.
Instead I went looking for something, I am not sure what, but I was looking for something, and in the course of the looking I discovered a whole heap of memories; photographs, writings, snippets of this and snippets of that. Nothing but memories, captured in colour and word.
Holidays and friends and loved ones and good times and bad times and small reminders of events and happenings that I had been present at but had somehow, in the melee of life, slipped my mind. There are smiles and tears and laughter and sadness and each word or face or scene drowns me in memories and nostalgia and happiness and regret.
I know I am a many layered beast, we all are, shaped and formed by the accretion of circumstance and influence and events that stretch back into our past. We carry with us a vast cloud of 'us' or 'ourselves', malleable and formless and indistinct, and it takes but a trigger to bring a part of that cloud into sharp focus, coloured by emotion and time.
I am surrounded by these memories, intangible and ephemeral, and I forget their weight and their significance. I forget the power they exert over me, reaching forward into the now, until suddenly I remember and their relevance becomes all too apparent.
I am making memories, I always am, and those of the now are happy ones; bright and cheery, full of hope and breathlessness and anticipation. I wonder that they in time may fade into the background, shaping me from the shadows of my mind, until I once again discover a trigger that reminds me of who I once was and who I am now.
I wonder how much of myself I have forgotten, hidden away beyond my ability to recall, beyond the bounds of rediscovery. I wonder how much of myself I will forget, how much of me will only exist in photographs, emails, writings, tweets and all the paraphernalia of my current life, a mere facsimile of the truth of me, whatever that may be.