The hardest thing in life is to have a good memory; very good memory, to remember even the tiniest details: the time, the colors, the faces, and even the smell. To have memories surrounding every moment of the present, and invade my subconscious in sleep, twist their beginnings and usurp their ends. It is hard to have memories, too many, and can't be controlled, and all are memories of pain. Memories of those moments when life ended as it used to be, emerging new from pain to produce only more.
I have been always envied for my good memory. It made me pass school without paying much effort. It was enough for me to look the lesson once to pass the dictation with full mark, to look at tables once and score the highest in math.
I don't just keep memories, I connect them too. My memory is in ever-lasting dynamic process of connecting the dots and producing new forms, new ideas, new realities. My dreams are not flashes of scenes I have experienced before. Deja vus are common when I am awake. My dreams are stories with beginnings and ends. I live their progress and feel the poignancy coming with them. My memory has been always my asset, but also my torment.
In my last night in Baghdad, while all my sisters came to say goodbye, one of them told me that she feared that even in London I wouldn't how to be happy, that I failed to see the blessings surrounding me, and failed to recognize how my life was going ahead. I wished I could explain.
I have lived, experienced, life different from them. While they put their heads to sleep, have a dream once a week or twice, wake to remember only flashes, I spend the longest moments while my head on the pillow, chasing sleep. When finally it happens, my memories chase me, bring forth what I tried to ignore all the day, formulate a story I have lived before and remind me of people I tried my best to eliminate them from my life. All my sins I see them present in my subconscious, all the pain I have lived I relive it again.
ِThe people I wronged, intentionally and unintentionally, the people who hurt me, even if they don't know about it; all are present when I am awake and in my dreams. Is there worse hell waiting for me than my own memory?
I have been always envied for my good memory. It made me pass school without paying much effort. It was enough for me to look the lesson once to pass the dictation with full mark, to look at tables once and score the highest in math.
I don't just keep memories, I connect them too. My memory is in ever-lasting dynamic process of connecting the dots and producing new forms, new ideas, new realities. My dreams are not flashes of scenes I have experienced before. Deja vus are common when I am awake. My dreams are stories with beginnings and ends. I live their progress and feel the poignancy coming with them. My memory has been always my asset, but also my torment.
In my last night in Baghdad, while all my sisters came to say goodbye, one of them told me that she feared that even in London I wouldn't how to be happy, that I failed to see the blessings surrounding me, and failed to recognize how my life was going ahead. I wished I could explain.
I have lived, experienced, life different from them. While they put their heads to sleep, have a dream once a week or twice, wake to remember only flashes, I spend the longest moments while my head on the pillow, chasing sleep. When finally it happens, my memories chase me, bring forth what I tried to ignore all the day, formulate a story I have lived before and remind me of people I tried my best to eliminate them from my life. All my sins I see them present in my subconscious, all the pain I have lived I relive it again.
ِThe people I wronged, intentionally and unintentionally, the people who hurt me, even if they don't know about it; all are present when I am awake and in my dreams. Is there worse hell waiting for me than my own memory?
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