Untoward

Why do we trust our memory when it often proves to be unreliable?

My father claims to never forget anything, and that curse keeps him up at night, constantly going over moments that are decades old, slightly haunted. And how can I disagree with him when my only argument is evidence from my own head? I still think he forgets, reconstructs, contextualizes the same way the rest of us do, regardless of his sincere belief in the unaltered, untainted quality of his recollections.

But so what? We all do the same on some level, all hold to some version of events that paints things in a particular color.

What does this say about the grudges, the thrills, the angry moments, the blissful things?  The passage of time changes everything, especially our memory. Our perspectives have changed and therefore the way we see our past changes. It is not necessarily a good or bad thing; it just is.

None of this changes the events we experienced or makes the things that have hurt  any less painful or any less real, whatever real means. Perhaps that is all that really matters-what is real to us-and everything else should just fade away.

I don’t even remotely believe that.

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About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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