Memories

There is a purity in direct experience, a purity that needs nothing else to support it and validate it and make it more enjoyable than it already is. It's the time when you don't think about it, this is just what is happening right now.

Memories are then taken possession of by the person who thinks was the one experiencing. Like a clean white linen tablecloth, this person wraps themselves in them, rubs them against their body, wears them on display, even cleans their shoes with them, and the cloth gets soiled and sweaty and ragged. The shadow of the memory becomes a toy for the person's masturbation. It goes down a path of growing a caricature of the true experience. The memory has been chewed over, remolded, rehashed into something that is pleasing to the person. The person then wants more of something that could never be wanted while it was there, because there was no want. The person makes elaborate and complicated stories about oneself around the memories, making them more digestible, more tangible and graspable.

There is a life in continually not-knowing. It's a paradox. Wanting that, is a fly caught in a spiderweb, can never get unwrapped out of itself to actually get there. But when no one wants, everything is had, and no one owns it anyway.