Memory is a fleeting, fickle device. There is a point, deep inside the conscience, where memory meets deeply buried fantasies and the line between the two dissolves into a swirl of color and imagination. It is here I find myself, not knowing fully what thoughts to trust and which to discard as transitory rubbish. You can’t be here! You… you were gone!
Yet I gaze into the mirror, learning the reflection pondering back at me with deep interest. I see the face of a scholar, deep lines betraying years of thoughtful study, or perhaps remorse. I see dark hair cropped conservatively, offsetting the wondering eyes of child-like innocence. If I were to guess, I would judge myself at 35 years, but even as I consider this the voice chuckles behind my thoughts.
I saw you, the dust… the rocks… You were DEAD! You had to be! You… you’re a GHOST! That has to be it!
And what of the voice? It is a nagging, reeling conscience that lurks just beyond the realm of thought. Why does it so persistently attempt to call forth these images? Does it lie? Why does it show this to me?
The dust clears as breathing returns, yet vision does not. Vision? Yes, it is vision. First, there is only an indistinct swirling of colors and shapes. Then formlessness gives way to discovery, to meaning, to recognition. A distinct pattern takes shape from the slowing images, a pattern that is familiar, important somehow. A pattern… it has a name… the name is important… it is connected to my name…
A ghost! You’re a ghost!
So be it. The voice will not speak the truth. I will let its images speak for me, name me. Pattern Ghost. Let the voice hide its truths, I will yet find the doorways and discover what lies beyond.
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posted 06-16-2003 07:01 PM
