“But the time will come when it will all turn into a memory, and you’ll reason coldly and regard it as completely trifling…” — Anton Chekhov, Three Years.
When I look back at the imbricated memories of my life, in one instance I envisage a small boy of eight with branch-like arms, emaciated almost diaphanous, stretching into the far-stretching California sky. They are arms sprouting from a tiny wind-pliable frame, insignificant human edifice almost fading into the monotonous background. This shadow is only able to free itself from the darkness of oblivion because he is me. I am that boy, a realization I am able to assimilate after much rigorous mental acrobatics that temporarily bridge the palpable linear disconnect.
But the phenomenon is not limited to this one example but runs through the disparate memories that constitute the tessellation of my childhood. The further they are, the more demanding the acrobatics become.