My memories of war and life as a refugee are fragmented. They are a series of images that bleed into one another until I am unable to distinguish one from another. And then the pain. And the numbness. I try to connect the images that I remember to the pain but what ensues is a dreadful inarticulation. There is no linearity but then again, what memory is linear? To make matters even more complicated, memory is unreliable. The blending of waking life and dream world is intense.
I am obsessed with getting every detail correctly. What if I do not see the facts as they are? What if my own perception is so skewed that it does not reflect the true nature of the situation? At the same time, I know that this obsession is not healthy (well, what obsession is?) and that it is limiting. I wish somebody would just ask me specific questions, which I could answer quickly and efficiently! But that is not how memory works. And that is not how meditation on war works either.
But I must stop with these self removed musings. Either one writes or one does not.
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