The Platform

That I recall the past does not mean I long for the past, nor that I resist the present. It means I am growing number and number, further and further from my own essence.

Everywhere the eye falls, all is reason and method. And my essence, like most people’s, is low and base — a wine sack and a rice bucket.

So, at moments this lucid and real, I can only recall the past held in memory: the winters and the mud in memory, the muggy heat and the rain in memory.

Everything is changing; the only thing that does not change is memory. In memory, I can give myself an injection at any time, and arrive once more at that platform leading to all roads.

But I have still forgotten a great deal, forgotten many details. It is those details that could piece together a more complete me — what a hard road that is.

Acquire meaning, lose the details. In the end, this lie will grow ever more seamless and natural.