A short thought-essay on love and memories

An explanation on how memories are perceived when relating to love and the tragedy of it. It started as an introduction to a story, but I figured it works on its own as well.

I recall the events which I am about to explain with a very vague picture in my mind - as if some classical work of art were to be smeared all over; lines blurred, shapes unclear, faces distorted, meaning lost. And yet the colours and basic outlines are still recognisable, and the lost meaning can be discovered again, with effort, if the mind decides it truly wishes to recall them. But as with all things in my life, my memories work differently to those of other people. It may seem obvious to some that the happiest memories are those we keep and cherish - those on which we lean in search of arbitrary comfort when the present isn't to our satisfaction; and that the harsh and painful moments are those we hope to suppress and never call upon our recollection again for fear of bringing unto ourselves some forgotten sentiments of suffering that we hoped we'd left behind.

Yet to me it is opposite. It's not the memory of lonely evenings, pervaded with uneasy silence whose sole origin is seclusion; when drowning in a pool of self-inflicted despair - and no, it is not the memory of the days of abandonment and crude betrayal from those I loved most and never intended on betraying myself; it is not even the knife that was thrust betwixt my ribs to catch my heart off-guard and drain it of blood - that innocent, young blood; and it was not the cruel words which alerted me to my physical imperfections, deformations, and mutations, which forced me to regard my attributes, day after horrid day, with greatly painful attentiveness, as I pondered how easy life must have been for those who were given at birth the gift of beauty, which so few (yet seemingly so many) unfairly receive. These things, or their memories drawn upon my mind, are not the things which inflict upon me a sensation of despair, and of fear of experiencing them again; I do not fear them because I grew stronger over years and see clearly now that my soul, as do our souls, remained undefiled despite its injuries, and my integrity, through all the pain and relentless attacks from within and without, kept its ground and pride.

What does, however oddly, fill me with anxiety and dreadful nostalgia, sentimentality of immeasurable proportions, and a mixture of all senses negative, is when, unknowingly and unintentionally, upon my fancy surface thoughts and feelings and paintings of joyous days, of happiness unrepeated, and of senses I had never experienced before and never after (and, God willing, I never will again, for otherwise the memories would be far more familiar, and near, and fresh - still unharmed by blissful forgetfulness). The days when I felt most intense things, which could only find their origin in requited love, are the days I hope never to think of again, throughout my entire solemn life. In every potential instance of their arrival I do what is in my power to avoid them, and when they do inevitably arrive I do all I can to fight back and push them into the deepest, most obscure corners of my memory.

Yet, if I hold such disdain for them, why do I not erase the altogether? Why do I refuse to abandon those happy memories with same fervent resistance with which I refuse to delete old photos, and screenshots on my phone of conversations where such sweet and promising words were spoken that would soften the heart of every man, of every beast or brute; and, with proportionally much greater intensity, soften and open up the heart of a young and of an innocent, and enter, though as an enemy, to no resistance and to no suspicion - for how can we imagine that a young an of sixteen winters would ever dare to refuse and to ignore the call of the first true act of love (or the first act of true love?) in his short and inexperienced life?

And these - these are the thoughts I avoid at every step: memories of those hot summer evanescent days that suited her character more than mine; when we would experience life and love through mistaken eyes; and when, in a passionate embrace, we would not hear the foreboding roar of thunder in the storm outside, when the one inside our hearts was only gathering, unbeknown to either of our hearts. And the happy words, and love so clear and bright - so obvious it was that it would last forever, and that there was not some hidden error in existence that was yet to surface when the time was ripe. And both the day and the night, the freezing and scorching, the rainy and clear, when I asked a question time and time again, and never received an answer until I beheld the fallacy of its premise - how could I have become the happiest on Earth, so beloved by such a perfect girl? And these thoughts - these sentiments I hide from - are the ones that grab by heart and mercilessly crush it between their cynical demonic fingers upon each their haunting appearance. They fill me with nigh unexplainable tragic nostalgia, and thrust upon me, as my eyes are closed, the tingling sensations of summer breezes blowing away the heat from my damp skin; and I see her, in those thoughts, see her staring somewhere yonder, upon some blooming cherry trees, across the endless, softly rolling, grassy hills , where we sit in silence, and where I experience the love that is far gone, and that was, perhaps, never honest and sincere. And this fancy of her is a perfect replica, for my memories of that pale face, of those blue eyes, and of that fair hair are vivid, as was vivid that evanescent moment in the past when I experienced it for the first tie. That is the memory that hurts, that tortures and molests, like a persevering phantom - like some lingering ghost that eternally follows.

Why then, do I not erase these thoughts if the cause so much harm? I dare not answer.