Memory Lanes

After the trauma of separation after the slick delivery, the breaking apart of fluids that fed and breathed for you while you were still a suckling life-raft in your mothers emptying ocean. While you were that blank slate, loving nothing but the need to be nursed within a being you could hardly comprehend, memory arose as if it were a worn-down penny in a strangers pocket. Not until later did memory recall itself, a snake coiling around the vine of your spine, even then only a mere pastiche of pictures drawn by a blind and incomprehensible artist. until you understood that that blind artist was yourself. Later still, memories piled up like crashed cars, the race was so speedy and your recording of it so slow. The grooves in your mind turning too shallowly only engraved enough to record no more than a few starkly etched moments. Not until you plunged into an age older than your growing body did you begin to ask yourself what was before all this world of your memory? You see vaguely, an end and a beginning. It seems that you were pushed outward or inward only to displace an infinite length of string to find this short rope of a life that becomes shorter as it measures itself. What puzzles you is that you feel that there was an agreement to die to yourself before you were birthed. You come to believe this because you understand that nothing comes from nothing. For now though you are this self-made being with a past only as long as your first breath. You want to know what came before. You hope to recall that former self behind its obscuring veil, beyond that cryptic tabula rasa of your continuing self.