Most of what I’ve believed is based on hearsay, gossip and distortion.
The facts take years to sift.
Reality boils. It is not a millpond. Its roiling surface is opaque with the confused seas of the moment. Its contents are the mystery we must navigate through and inhabit.
Time is sedentary, sorting by gravity what is important from the dust of experience. I can never know the full meaning of my life in my own time. Perhaps I should be less harsh on myself.
I can never know my past completely, for remembering is a distortion itself.
My childhood, both the deprivation and the innocent wonder, the betrayal and the promise, are seen through the flawed glass of my needs.
I invent my history by selecting what I choose to remember and what I allow to remain hidden.
Even when me knowing is dim, persisting only in remnant attitudes or hidden fears, what I know still reflects everything I have experienced.
I am my memory, large and small, retained in my character, body and being.
Some part of my past is always telling on me.
Awaken from the dream of innocence and remembering my history.
Know how I color the world.
True freedom is called openness to my past.