Friday, January 27, 2012


I am beginning to understand how significant memories are. My memories have made me who I am—they are cosmic, transcendent to my being. They are whispers, the ghosts of my existence. The glimmers of another world forever lost in the precedence of time. Forever growing. Never changing. Regrets. Failures. Triumphs. Pain. Happiness. Joy. Holiness. Yes, they are sacred to me. I cannot express my memories with the eminence they reach. I can explain what happened, who was there, what it looked like. But the cogency of my past surpasses language. My thoughts eclipse the words I use. I feel at a loss, almost tortured, holding the past in memory, and yet bound by my lip’s futility. What if I could communicate with the fervor of my thoughts? What if I could talk from the unvoiced forth dimension of my mind?

Silence. Perhaps that is my only answer. Better to remain silent than devalue memories with words.

I took this from an essay I wrote about my Grandpa Corfman, he's now 97 years old. 

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