Almost Heaven

"Amnesia - shit theres a concept. could use a bit of that myself. Forgiveness and forgetness, right there in the dictionary next to amnesty. Same root word. Meaning "not remembered".
But something "not remembered" is not the same as something's that forgotten.
Two different concepts.
The two different halves of truth and reconciliation.
Because your mind can consciously exile a memory. Pretend to forget.
But your mind cannot reconstruct what is truly lost.
Amnesia is the selective loss of access to specific memory data that have emotional significance.
In hysterical amnesia the self, that organ of remembering, opens its veins and bleeds itself to death.
Think of a body drowning in self-generated fluid.
To the mind that's what amnesia is.
A self-inflicted death.
In order to survive.
The unconscious mind is always ticking, ever tidal, never tidy.
Memory is all we are and all we have. A re-construction of the past. Not its reproduction.
It is the monument we build inside ourselves.
Each soul constructs its own.
And it is either everything we've kept in life. Or everything we've lost.
How memories haunt. How they recur in vivid living colour.


Somewhere there's a monument to the love that you have or have not found yet, the love of your life and the shape of your future, discharging ions into our skin through the dark. They are the span of the rainbow you see before waking the first touch of air on your body each morning the word that you say without speaking the prayer that you made before life. They are the space of tomorrow
the spill of conscience
the fill of desire
the spell of your name.
They are the love you remembered at birth the love you will make after dying. Somewhere it waits for you, love that is not of this earth. Where the sky ends. Where memory pales. Where eternity is. Almost heaven.

The transportation of the soul by grief is so like love's conveyance that the two must certainly be joined like wheels, to one another.
No love, no grief; a cold heart cannot mourn. A cold heart can inflate with anger to pump outrage as a slave on death's bloodthirsty lesions but salvation, as a routine for existance, stalks on love alone. That's why it takes an isolated death and not a massacre to tip the human heart to pour a grief the mass of which dilutes the differentiated salts of individuals to a common sea of mourning, a grief far larger than an ocean, a grief to drown in float in like an astronaut drifting from a pod through silent weightless space without passing through the actuality of dying.
Grief of that trajectory must shed its tears in points that graph, plot its flight plan, form a profile, shape a face. We are creatures born with faces and we need to hang a face on death to greet it. For in mourning less is always more.


That's what all lovers do, anyway, isn't it? Deceive themselves? Forget the past and start all over again?