Quoted By:
>Introspect into your own undeniable memories
The necessity to think becomes unceasingly apparent. Without any distraction, each footstep feels monotonous and endless, demanding conscious input just to advance.
With all places scattered around Earth, with all the sights repeated in a hundred distinct patterns: conversations exchanged and experiences lived diffuse vaguely into ‘who said what’ and ‘where were who’s. Only vague concepts of biomes and logical orders offer an idea of how your life is structured.
‘’Doing what i didn't like; liking what i didn't do.’’; It was like that for as long as you managed to remember.
You might have started this journey when you were as little as 4; you were playing ball with Imamu and Dada.
Would a 4 year old remember and feel emotions so vividly? You find your past self to have been very young back then. Those days, they were hot, raspy and lively… maybe you were older. Vaguely, a certain someone’s exile from the tribe's land comes to mind, Imamu and Dada were dried and eaten by ants when they got tied to a tree.
Were those them?
You don't exactly remember; but you sure suffered as if they were.
Suddenly, the dancing spirit of straw and long stick amused your thoughts, erasing the dry carcasses from your imagination. It moved in these impossible ways, when the night was black and the fire hot; sometimes with a single leg and at times, with neither. You would have liked to learn such art before your parents' business had concluded.
A totem of an elderly tortoise sat in the living room, on a cubic short table of white marble. Before you could satisfy your curiosity, it was taken away from your sight, usurped to God knows where. Before that home was abandoned, a desiccated ocelot with marbles for eyes kept you just as entertained.
As overwhelming as it may be, the promise of an insufferable travel experience by hoofs on dirt is enough to make you focus. Another sight appeared, and another just as ugly; you try thinking of the mummies of Guanajuato, trivial memories, but no. Thinking of not thinking, for a split second you visualized your grandma’s flying sags, now burned in your retina, areolas like the churning sun, the motion of shakes and convoluted jumps complemented itself to completion, rebuilding into a vivid feast of audiovisual recollection. She was teaching you her ancient technique of hog riding.
Oh, the dog, the snake, Julius the monkey!
Anything, but your grandma’s corpulence! You wish for anything else to recall. In Spain there was this bull that stabbed the matador, the doctor quickly came but didn't let him be taken to the hospital; he failed to save him, the deceased’s woman would scrutinize forever. And... and you remember again, your grandma was fat, saggy, had ashy hair... and wore floral dresses; as disgusted as you could be by the memory, your true love for her calms down your intense reaction, leaving you indifferent.
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