That Odd Little Thing at the Back of Your Mind

What Happens to Our Stories?

The journey begins in every day of our lives; in every second of every ounce of every atom of all existence. We see, hear, taste, feel, and smell everything.

But how much do we remember?

And what stories do we remember? The ones from our childhoods, maybe? The ones we have read? Our favorite novels? Or those that are said?

Is there any rhyme or reason to the way we remember or what we remember?

We start out with the good, the bad, and the ugly. We remember all, but some are fleeting. But what about those memories we keep?

What happens to them when we grow old and forget or simply lose storage space because of too much information? Where do those memories go?

Do they stay there, buried, or go away completely?

I believe...

That we make our memories. They start out like any others, simple or complex, but certainly ingrained. But time wears on.

I believe...

That those memories become stories. They start out like any other story, simple or complex, but still ingrained. But time marches on.

I believe...

That what start as stories, become our dreams. They start out like any other dream, simple or complex, but ephemeral yet ingrained. But time flies on.

I believe...

That those dreams become our own personal books. They start out like any other book, simple or complex, as an idea or a dream, but ingrained. But time continues on.

I believe...

That, like all books eventually, they become forgotten and discarded. They start out like any other old book, simple or complex, but still tattered and forgotten. But time carries on.

But what to do with old and dusty books? Where do you put them?

I believe...

That when those memories become those old, dusty books, we put them on a very back shelf in the very darkest corner of our minds.

Time stops.

This is where time no longer wears, marches, flies, continues, or carries on. This is where we keep our stories locked away. Safe forever.

"But then why do we forget?" you ask.

I believe that this room becomes unreachable over the years. The stories are still there and the room keeps growing as the time outside hurtles on. The only thing we ever truly forget is where we put the damn key. All that knowledge locked away in the room of our mind. All those memories, stories, dreams, and books.

But what happens to all that when we die?

Do we, and the world around us, lose that knowledge to a simple, inevitable thing like Death?

How can that knowledge survive if the room is locked?

Do we take it with us to the next life, use it as we need it?

Do we lose the lock and the walls when we die?

Do we just become other people's stories after it is all said and done?

When does any of it become that odd little thing in the back of your mind?