Narrative of Memory

Into the distorted truth of half forgotten memories; into the rubble of shattered past, scattered shards of hardly any memory at all; into my supposed truth I step and stop and stoop to pick the pieces of nostalgic youth. I gather up my fractured facts, stack my stock of sentimental ramblings, give structure to my reverie and resurrect a child that could be me. Resistant to their version of events, I resent the tainted tales that they have told. I focus now on making new from old, on carving my account from what I know. I’m pushing out their piercing opposition, the splintered debris brushed aside; hushed inside the voice of my persistent point of view.