Repeated Exercises in Impermanence.
By London Oscuro
Remember the fable? Of which a great king asked his wise men, please, would you show me a phrase which shall be true, always? And then so did the wise men toil, so did they scratch their heads, hoping to procure that single indisputable sentence? Upon a magnificent tapestry was it written, that single truth: This too shall pass. So delighted was the king that we have remembered it since.
I remember the fable. Scattered about are pictures, everywhere, of things which have passed. Pictures, and nothing more, for I have forgotten their contexts, the names of the people depicted by them. That great mural conjured by the images surrounding me shows nothing but the faces of strangers from a bygone era, and, every once in a while, a small child who looks remarkably like me. This too shall pass. I remember that phrase often.
Remember, yes, remember, not the face of my mother or the voice of my father or the love of my grandmother or the touch my friend. Be not reminded that that has passed, for you will fall into another low, another pointless exercise in fleeting emotion. That too has passed.
Instead remember the feel of the bar as it came down on my head, having failed to support my weight along with the rope. Remember when I bit and scratched and scrubbed at my hands until they bled, covered with scabs, and when I looked at that poor school counselor and told her where they came from she knew I was lying. Remember when my father told me I was a punishment from God. That too has passed.
And pass things will, and I am the better for it. I've a good relationship with transience, which has done so much for me. Long gone are my days of depression, in which I would be unable to speak at all for fear of retaliation. The era in which I would refuse to leave a small corner for fear of attack by entities only I understood has passed. Today I work, and I sing, and I live, because transience has made my sorrows pass.
Today I look upon another with great love. Then, remember: This too shall pass. My memories, as with everything, will leave. Leave far too soon, the difference between two days and two years forgotten, all thrown into the abyss of amnesia. Though I look upon them now, I will soon turn around. In that moment that too shall pass and I will remember not their face nor name nor voice only that I had loved them, for whatever reason.
"Remember?" My date asked me. I think she smiled, but I do not remember. I do not remember, I tell her, and she leaves. I do not remember why we were together in the first place. The pain of heartbreak soon faded. That too had passed.
I do not remember what they looked like. Too long has it been- that is, five seconds is far too long. Today I forgot to water a plant of mine, and today I found out that I had forgotten for a week. My plant is dying, now. Oh well. That too has passed. I remember that phrase as I hold its wilted leaves between my fingers.
Remember, no, remember not of the things I wish I could. Instead remember why my mind is so dead-set on forgetting. In that way, you will remember what really matters. That great king's phrase, so proudly displayed upon the tapestry by his gaggle of wise men. That is all that must be remembered, that fable: This too shall pass.
