In the place where memories live, fresh treasure interlopes - bright and excited like luminous watch-hands struck hard by the sun. But the brilliance is short-lived, and as dimness sets in, the once glorious tumbles down to find rest on others that have come before. Their collective energy now a steady, sometimes perceptible, beacon in a corner of our brain – the days of our lives.
A float-about, shimmering hand searches. Finally, what is sought is found; either through conscious effort or because some part of the wonderful machine had a need to recall the memory, and acted upon that need; often without permission from the body whole.
The memory rests in a place where our material hands are of no assistance. We cannot guide and we have no choice but to trust the retrievers. But a clutch of specters they must be. Mischievous at times in their selection and timing. They can masochistically hurl a hurt, or benevolently please. But for everything there is a purpose. We must trust.
Accept what is offered. The gift is sublime, and save for our lives, memory is the most valuable possession we have, though the shimmering hand sometimes abuses it. Savor the joy and the hurt, and the rainbow range in between. But beware, the rainbow has spear-pointed ends.
A shock-wave that starts in your spine near your neck, speeds downward between your shoulders then makes your stomach jump with an electrical command. That's suddenly remembering a loved one has recently been lost. Have you felt that upon waking the following day? I have.
A traveling bolt that strikes where the anvil and hammer must connect. No real sound, yet perfectly audible. Mother's lullaby.
They often come unexpectedly, striking the rods and cones, intercepting normal vision and replacing it with the facsimile of a hard secret you wish you didn't hold, or the sight of something sad - both in my case.