Mist of lost memories...

As the mind wanders mindlessly through the forgotten lanes of the days bygone, I m in awe of the dust they have gathered. They, of a time, tinged sepia and torn and tattered through the vagaries of daily life leave in my hand but a crumbling mass of emotions.

It leaves me in a muddle of emotions, an intense swirl, to find the memories, both cherished and the abhorred alike, fading away into the minds unknown leaves a wake that is more blank than I expect it to be.

The most endearing of faces, sounds and smells, the textures of yesterday all lose the clarity and gain a certain misty but altogether mystic quality that makes one wonder if it all really happened.

All the senses that I m so sure of suddenly appear deceptive to the point of being unnatural and artificial.

Case in point being; the loss memories of all the events that I had made a mental note of to remember to cherish to treasure and to keep in touch always elude me in the clarity or the detail or in the matter altogether.

I cannot remember her face as it was, I can no longer remember her voice; no longer remember the glow of her hazel tresses glowing in the dawn. Not the pain I felt in my calves trying to walk ahead of her so that I could catch a passing glimpse through the parallel street. No longer the way she said “you are welcome” to my trembling congratulations on her mathematical success.

The mind tears apart every fibre of its making to find the missing details to remove the mystic mist of lost memories. Tears stream down my minds eye as the loss hits home. Did she like me? Did she mock me? Should I have told her? Did she know? Was her woman’s instinct aroused?? What would have been her answer??

The ramification of these tattered memories is a very friable canvas of her of today. Would she know me today? Would she say something? Or am I a stranger?

What is a stranger’s poetry to her? Being a woman in rapture in someone else’s heart!

I have actively avoided using the words love and committed in the above sentence because of my morbid fear that she might have and might still be reciprocating someone’s affections, of which I harbour no jealousy but a resigned acceptance of defeat and of having not played out in a fair ground.

If I have a complaint it is against oneself and god simultaneously for not having a serviceable memory in the matters of a feeble heart which requires all the help it requires to take decisions on the matters of consequence in the immediate and distant future.

The day I meet god is going to be an interesting one I suppose; gauging by the make up of this strange excuse for a human being. I have come to the conclusion that I will first ask him out to coffee or tea whichever he may prefer, not the heady stuff of the heavens because I d want him to be in my shoes and think for a moment and tell me what he d have done in my situation, just an opinion that’s all. I just hope and pray he obliges.