Moonlight Sonata

•11 - Memory•

Memory: the faculty by which the mind stores and remembers information.

•She•

"I can feel the transparency of my being," I said, as we sat on the front porch. The warm sun was comforting, though He kept insisting that it was burning Him like never before. "Maybe I am finally reaching the beyond," I continued, ignoring His little groan. "I can feel the wind passing right through my bones, as if they aren't even there."

He sighed a little, and I heard Him scratch His head.

It was a similar morning, days after that fateful one. The silence in the house was often now, and the piano lay untouched. Poor thing, I worried so much for Him, because lately, everything He'd ever disliked seemed to have surrounded Him all around. I knew I had been that way once, too, and even though it was impossible to recall those days, I tried to feel His vibes and sync them with my own.

You'd think it strange, how you had to leave everything behind at one point, whether you wanted to or not. But the tough part wasn't the forgetting. It was the remembering.

I'd learnt that beings like us lived on pain. We fed off that, and fear, and greed and illusion. We delved into crooked ventures and didn't leave until the pain of it had poisoned us, torn us apart. And even after that, we craved for more.

We thought pain kept us alive, it kept us solid and grounded and an existing reality. We were foolish beings, really, for we ran after pain, expecting joy.

Cutting through this inescapable cycle came forgetfulness, like a blessed boon. And yet we desired to brush it aside, and cling to memories which did nothing but wound.

"You're wrong," He'd say of this view of mine. "For in memories happiness too is contained."

"Of course," I'd say. "Happy memories there are, and their purpose is to remind you of the absence of that bliss. For if those times were still here, and that feeling, still lingering, that happiness today, my dear, wouldn't be just a memory."

But today, He was quiet, and it was only I who spoke. And I didn't speak about memories now, but something totally nonsensical. I was feeling troubled because of something He'd said last night. Because I knew He'd been absolutely right. He had looked straight through my hollow reassurances, meant only for His comfort, and tapped on the fact I'd carefully avoided: that bliss from forgetting was not forever.

"You cannot stop making memories," He'd said. "You cannot escape pain. It will catch up with you every time, like a leech refusing to let go. Think of your own self, you naive little fool, think of the lust that rages in your mind. Think of your dear stranger, and tell me not the pain isn't worth the pleasure. Tell me not you don't enjoy the blood on your skin, even though it hurts you, even though you think it's sin."

Presently, I was feeling uneasy, and I reached out for His hand. I was ashamed of myself for demanding comforting, from someone who needed it more than me.

I wanted Him to say something, anything meaningful that would ease my whirling heart. I hoped He could read my face now, like He always did from afar.

But all that He said when He opened His mouth was, "do you remember where I kept that jar?"

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