Memories

Memories

Are but stories

Well remembered

They validate

The version of our life

We believe

Has greater value in becoming

Without them

We are lost in meaning

Caught in a tangle

Competing truths

Demanding

To be heard.

Nowhere will there be

A place of safety

Or quiet time

When the echoes

Of a multitude

Fill our thoughts

The only order we can find

Is confabulation

A made up story

We believe is ours.

How can we be sure

Of anything

When what might be true

Remains concealed

For self-protection

People and things

Are but a projection

Of what they were

Before an accident

Of nature

Created the art

Of dissemination.

Sublimation and

Self-determination

Fit hand-in-glove

With individuation

In this grandiose deception

As eventually, after endless

Caffeine fueled

Stomach churning rewrites

We become

The central character

In a pulp-noir fiction

That is

The self-penned

Story of our lives