Memory is the most precarious form of documentation because it dies when the one who remembers dies, it is as if life were the document of itself - a life that, at any moment, forgets itself.
João Tordo | O Livro dos Homens sem Luz
Don't you ever wonder what happens to the memories we forget?
Or maybe we don't forget, we simply don't have them present, but they reside inside of us in some way.
I don't know, but I always find great value in documenting life outside our memory. To me, is not about living in the past, but putting light on the daily life. Maybe even shaping the future?
That's a great quote. I've written two ridiculously long, rambling and overly existential comments to this post, but deleted them both because what I'm trying to say defies words apparently! Something about the dream through which we see life... and that it is only ever the dream that dies... (That makes no sense out of context I know, so if I can find the words later I will return!)
ReplyDeleteThe romantic in me likes to think that we live in order for life to know itself briefly through these many varied and wonderfully distorted lenses...
I'm thrilled to read about your long and existential comments on this matter because I've been into a similar path for the past week, considering if we really should remember our pasts, how, and through which type of lenses. I did not think what you wrote made no sense, on the contrary, it urged me to know more about it because I couldn't grip it entirely. I would be delighted to hear more from your perspective, even if you feel your words aren't quite the ones yet.
DeleteIf I was to rewrite this post today, I would definitely use different words and affirmations, but those imperfect words did start a quite existential but very enjoyable cascading of thoughts. Plus, I love a romantic (and/or a comic) take on everything, because usually, that take will lighten any matter with some sense of joy and hope.
Memories are poignant when someone dies - a kind of painful joy. Very hard to understand..
ReplyDeleteWhat a touching insight, Freda. A painful joy makes complete sense in that case, but surely immensely hard to navigate through.
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