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“Of what use was memory anyway than as a template for one's most reassuring self-deceptions!”
― Ashim Shanker, Only the Deplorable

“All events of the past withered to mere skeletons, veined and fleshed of fancy.”
― Ashim Shanker, Only the Deplorable

“The rocks are craggy/unmanageable
without sufficiently lacerating my Self ~ scarcely
solid ground, but more accurately a foothold. Yet in smoothness, the rocks are even less effective against the sweep of the tides than the sands of the shore. I sit here, not terribly concerned about the bruises and scrapes the jagged rocks lend in the moment, but concerned nevertheless by the waves that sweep back so effortlessly over the catchstones and eternally beyond reach—evading capture, leaving only a dissipating froth upon the black ridges to signal, at the very least, that 'it' happened: for whatever 'it' is worth.

There is a distinctive tenor to this declaration of presence, this collapsing flow—Something that reminds me of...?—the reverberations of which remain beyond the span of cognition. Reverberations: there exists a memory of a memory of a dream I had once, but
never an authentic rendering of the essential
Moment. Still I can hear it in dreams of memories of memories of dreams.

In dreams: a faint voice.

A persona, a belief system distinctly its
own, yet for now, the roar of the tides are a
whisper ears strain to grasp. Seemingly a clue to a memory locked within. Or it’s all imagination:
perhaps the sound of the ocean causes me to
assume I’m remembering something. Gives the
memory a sentience of its own and a vessel
allowing it to surge in and ebb out. Yes, I’ve heard such things mentioned before: the stimulus that reverse engineers the very memory it is presumed to trigger.

Still, it bothers me: this evasive, timeless
notion.”
― Ashim Shanker, trenches parallax leapfrog