A lie of memory

I have always looked back to my memories with a nuanced sense of nostalgia. Now that I look at it objectively, I come to realize that memory is not honest. For too many times I have looked back at myself, at others, at loved ones, at lovers, and it is just now that I see that memory has lied to me for too long. I have never ceased from hunting with a bow a feeling of resilience. I try to be the arrow targeting resilience, but I end up being the rope that is always coming back to a more exaggerated dimension of the memory. And for a moment or so, I feel comforted and nostalgic. Sometimes I feel mercy for a younger self, more exactly, for the naivety and naturalness I was confronting the world with. I had no idea I could ever lose that naturalness. I thought that such a thing, a shield that gave me my fitness as an embryo, this thing could so easily shed from my dimensions. That’s why I feel nostalgic looking back. As of now, I know I am looking back at something somewhat unnatural; but I also know that memory always lies. I have set boundaries. From now on, the nucleus of my preparation, the seed of my evolution is fit, prolific vision in dimensions a lot of people don’t have access to and for a while I feel fortunate, blessed, chosen. I was allowed to grow naturally from an unnatural seed. There is nothing directed to sources of hate or anger. The whole process is just a relic, a physical element of a torment that ended a million years ago. Now, one would laugh to the vast proportions that enlightened growth had because the same one would have the infatuation to realize conceptually a concept he was not beforehand capable of realizing. I might say it is a thing of the unnatural.

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