Tuesday, December 18, 2012

What is missing.

I woke up with my blindfold still on, feeling pinpricks of cold on my face. I finally removed the blindfold, and looked up to see that snow had fallen overnight. The spot in which I buried my memory is covered with snow, but I still have a general idea of where it is. Also, I can still hear it singing.

This is quite a predicament. As I wrote yesterday, if I weave through the forest and find my way home in any way that can be retraced, the memory will call me back, beg me to dig it back up. Snow presents a serious problem because of this right here:

Not only would I produce a track that I could follow back to my memory in a moment of weakness, but others could follow it as well. And I am not ready to consider the consequences of having the memory dug up by someone else and stolen.

So I will stay here for now. There are some berries growing nearby. And I can melt snow for water. I saw a coyote earlier, and called him over to cuddle with me. I'll fall into a chilly trance with my coyote and daydream--sometimes this is the best way to solve problems.

But before that. Let me consider this footprint in the snow. A footprint. An indentation. It is not a thing itself, but rather it is the mark of a lack of a thing. Something that was once there--pressure and warmth and physicality and weight--and that is now gone. A reminder of what is missing.

Will this memory that I'm abandoning leave a footprint in the SELF?
Thinking of this mark of absence makes me feel melancholy. On the other hand, perhaps it's comforting knowing that absence doesn't only take something away, it also adds a mark.

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