Like cotton-candy
standing up
to a deluge,
sometimes these things fade,
quickly sinking
into the mud.
And sometimes they move in phases
as your recollection shifts,
like the coastlines
warping more the closer you peer,
just as you try to quantify them.
Tenuous already is our grasp
of the present.
The past does not preserve well.
The memories need to get out,
to stay fresh
but take up so much space
and don’t always make clean reentries.
Sometimes we compress
the things we’d like to keep,
or contain —
but they’ll usually lose
their original character,
or exaggerate it to absurdity,
whatever’s worse.
Left alone,
they may consolidate,
as a skewed synthesis of disparate events.
Or they collide, leaving hollowed-out husks
of days gone by,
flinging detritus
to where it never was.
In spite of this,
one tiny detail you find
in daily life,
that you probably forgot about,
can bring you right back
to where you once were
some time ago.
We use these pieces of experience
as planks to build stable footing,
keeping them flexible lets our platform’s
withstand the test of time.
The File Pile 