It might seem accurate to infer that the human mind is parallel with a museum. The mind latches onto remnants of the past, as a museum stores authentic artifacts. But the mind is the criminal of museums because its objects lack verification. Making matters worse, the mind not only displays what it desires to display, but it also displays what it does not desire to display. What does that make the mind? The mind is a haphazard museum; the chaos extends beyond the control of self.
There is a certain cruelty to memory. Truly, the mind is more similar to a cemetery than a museum. Letters written and received between friends are like epitaphs. And looking at photographs is like searching under tombstones. What do I have if I have a letter from you? Or a photograph of you? I mistaken the remnants as wholeness. I pretend that you are here. Yet nothing within me can cause me to truly fall for the delusion I set before myself. My foolishness seems indefinite though. I am unable to get over you. I refuse to accept any conclusions. I refuse to move on as I wrap my arms around the monument.
Ecclesiastes 7:10 Do not say, “Why is it that the former days were better than these?” For it is not from wisdom that you ask about this.
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