Here you go.
Memoir of Consciousness
Such a simple pose - legs creased at the knees as she sat on the floor, elbows tucked to her sides, hands peeling a half-eaten banana near her breast. She looked up at the camera and smiled softly. The edges of her mouth curved awkwardly, shimmering brown eyes fixating to the lens. Shiny burgundy hair cut just to her cheeks hung awkwardly into her face. Skin soft; the smoothness of it left no creases on her face- even the edges of her nose had a rounded look to them with the exception of her cheeks which would crease cutely just above her mouth. A quarter-buttoned white collared shirt and a loosely worn tacky gold tie, along with a pair of black cotton arm warmers completed her always-unique look. Behind her, the image was bare. Flat white walls, white drapes covering a white trimmed window, a beige carpet whose only purpose is for her to sit.(Not a sentence) Fingers positioned queerly as she grasped the peel of the banana with her thumb and index finger, the tip of the middle finger pushed upward as it was pressed against the palm of her hand, a position her fingers may never of been in before. A moment wholly forgotten if the camera had not shuttered at that very moment.(not a sentence)
I can still smell her on that day. She never wore perfume, or lotions; she always smelt of the fabric she wore; the spray in her hair and the faint indescribable scent of her skin. When she would hug me, her clothing felt thin and loose. She was always happy, smiling, drawing. She was an artist and I loved watching her draw. Her thick pad and assortment of pencils and markers would engulf an entire room as she would happily work in the middle of the mess. I saved all of the drawings that she gave to me- some of us together, others of just me or her characters. We were both spontaneous and random and would often get into trouble. Running off on clear nights to look at the stars along the edge of town. (Not a sentence) Laying on our backs we would make up constellations or search the sky for shooting stars. Once while at a restaurant we began flicking seeds from hamburger buns at each other, which erupted into a food fight, involving milkshake, fries, and lettuce. I did not know it then but the day that picture was taken I would only be allowed to share one last day, one last memory together with her, before she was gone.
That single clipping of a memory captured a moment in time in which a person who had existed is long since dead. But is she anymore dead than the boy who took the picture? In a sense we die every moment. I have very little in common with the person who took this picture but whose memories I share and he has very little in common with a child that existed before him. A child whose thoughts, beliefs, dreams and determination are wholly different then mine. He was more caring then I, he took other people’s opinions and feelings into deep consideration, always eager to please and help when he could. He had no feelings of anger or resentment and lies were alien to him. He could spend hours in nearly spiritual wonder at the excitement and mystery held in a forest or unknown urban landscape. The world would capture his attention and leave him full of adventure and excitement for what he did not understand.
Curiosity drove him to understand those things he did not. Mysteries were no longer unknowns, but things to be solved. Everything could be taken apart, disassembled, analysed. Slowly he learned of reality - why the sky was blue, why a whip cracks, or why the planets and moons don’t hurtle (is this an actual word? I’m not too familiar with it…)into the sun. But he also learned of more unsettling things. The day he realized the fallibility of his parents, the responsibility tied to all of those cool adult things he longed to do, and the desires brought on by puberty. That child slowly died. His thoughts, dreams, ambitions taken over by another. At some point that child became the young man who took that picture, his views on religion, politics and life different from my own. He was expected to go to school, get a good job and make money. He loved to learn but didn’t know what to study or what he wanted to do for a living. He was a very different person from me but we both shared a love for the memories associated with that girl.
But how many times had she died before then. I had known her for three years and through circumstances she changed drastically. She was nothing like the girl I had first met. When I first met her she had a thirst for the world and life. She wanted nothing but to be intertwined with the world, and the people around her. But with her mother’s promiscuity, her parents’ divorce and her father betraying her in the worst possible way, she turned away from the world and wanted to create one with no one but herself and me, the last person she said she could trust. That person she had become may have been drastically different from the girl whose personality I was first attracted to but we had grown together, and changed together. I wonder what she would think of me now, so different from who I once was. But we effected each others lives so I should also wonder who I would be if she was still here. We as people constantly change, from one moment to the next, and death is just another one of those changes.
Every child comes from a parent and every adult comes from a child. Every time someone acquires a new belief or piece of knowledge, he/she is slowly becoming someone else. We should all be very careful about what we learn, do, and think and make sure no time is misused so we do not create someone we do not want to be. The most horrible people in history were most likely caring good people at one time, even if it was just during childhood. But we should also not be afraid of change, and constantly try to seek information that can change our thoughts, opinions, and beliefs to push us closer to an ultimate truth, whatever we as individuals believe it to be. But whomever we become, we should always respect the memories we share with the people we once were.
It makes sense that one should revere their past, it is a form of respect for what created you. I own many memories of the past; times forgotten by everyone but myself. How many memories have I carried in the past that I no longer have now? How many events have happened in my life that no one remembers? Did the child that existed before any of my memories really exist? I suppose I would have to ask my mother to know but even then I’m only relying on her honesty and the integrity of her own memories. I have many memories. and although they are my memories, I did not create them - I inherited them.
