Another trip down the memory line
It was ten years ago since I woke up to a new world. I learned to spread my wings and fly.
Ten years ago, I became a butterfly!
Some say I am more of a dragonfly since I can be scary and burn – I have to admit, I scare myself sometimes-. But I like to think of myself as a womanfly. The softness of a butter melting easily to a gentle gesture, to a sharp consciousness; yet burning all that is there should she be treated with unjust, and the ability to just spread the wings and fly high, away from a burning butter.
A womanfly,
And a memory!
I recall our conversation that midsummer night of 2014, a rainy chilly day foolishly called midsummer, and a hardcore celebrated night. With me, the only sober memory of a tradition of birth and waste, making prints onto my memory.
“We no longer belong to what we used to call home, yet we are not like them here” he says.
“We live by the edge, one leg at home and the other in an alternative home. It is called the borderland between the east and west” I responded to my newfound friend!
On a colourful October morning, I travel to the borderline land, the borderline between what we are, and what we are not.
And to my surprise, he was there!
There, I tried to find some of the leftover of us in the many tiny streets and shops.
I bought corn hoping the seller would recognize my face, he was astonished to meet a womanfly.
I asked the food truck seller about the name of my cocoon; he pointed to my wings.
A bird stealing my cheese, a boat and a corn are all I recall, and there it hit me!
Who are we if not our memories? strip away the faces, the voices, and the feelings begin to fade away. Strip away some places and dates; we are no longer.
It is dead, buried and forgotten.
It is empty, it is no longer burning…
To hold some faces near and dear, to wash the dust off them, to raise the volume of their voices, and sometimes make a vast space for their ashes in our beds, lay their void on our pillows and dream back the life we imagine we once had with them.
There stands the emptiness staring at the void.
If not a handful of fading faces and echoing voices, what are we?
