Story #6: Black Ink Puddles
Memory is a stack of papers soaked with water, dripping black ink puddles of gibberish onto the wooden floor just mopped prior. Often time we try to dry out some of the pages, recall what was once written, mouthing out the words to ourselves as if our life depended on it.
We fail to retrieve its contents in its most purest form. Forever doubting the source from which it came, never knowing if the life we have led is truly the one we remember. Yet only knowing we are who we are because of the contents of our memories.
A paradox without a paradox.
A forever loop with an ending.
A flashback into the dark caves of flashlight lit moments.