I Have Blinded Myself Writing This
These things happen. There's been similar incidents. Now there's inflammation, a bit of wet, a severed tendon. No. Not yet. A bandage underneath a sleeve would keep Teddy from worrying. But he doesn't worry anymore. If I severed a tendon I might never remember his name.
I can never expect what I will forget.
It wasn't Nietzsche who said that what we write with blood isn't meant to be read but learned by heart. Or it was him, and this, what you're reading, is meant to be both.
Tell me, how do you know what you've forgotten?
There is this advantage: I enjoy several times the same good things for the first time.
There is this advantage: Crossed bridges burned in rearviews nothing to show of blunders not even the smell of smoke Teddy left me a note inside a pillowcase:
There is this advantage: the palest ink is better than the best. Teddy left me a note in my pocket:
We reconstruct lives; we do not record them faithfully. Or we do neither. After he burned the Temple of Artemis, the Ephesus leaders ordered Herostratus' name to never be spoken again. Damnatio memoriae. If we remember to not speak it aren't we remembering it? Sometimes memory is just noise and a life like an abyss, where I wait, with Joseph Ceravolo, "for the masonry / to show a little slit / for my soul to get through."
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