The art of memory is the greatest secret of all time. We stand with our eyes closed, trying to make sense of a past that seems foreign. The stories we tell ourselves about how things were then, as they are now: are the things that help us live through life's difficulties and triumphs, a source of meaning in our lives today. In some cases, still seemingly incomprehensible.
I said I'd be glad to accompany him into that space if he could show me how, and we went together, roaming around that great emptiness. It's simply there, floating in the void, and never changes. The colours are the same, it is always dark, it is always silent, and it never moves.
"Is it alive?" I asked, diverting my gaze from the terrifying emptiness that seemed to move without pause as if it were a massive hole into nothingness. And yet I could feel it still there, an unstoppable force pressing on me from all sides, as if some cosmic law required it.
"No, it's not alive," he answered quickly, trying to sound reasonable. "It's not a living thing at all."
Then he straightened his voice and looked into my eyes as I tried to understand what he was telling me.
"It's an idea, and, as you see, ideas are alive," he said and then immediately returned his eyes to the silent place, trying to avoid further comment.
All creatures come from somewhere else; they arrive injured, having endured loss and misery, yet they persevere, and occasionally, when things become terrible, they come here to heal themselves. Some came here by choice, those who came here by necessity, and those who were never supposed to be here but wound up here nonetheless.
"They tell us that the dead here do not decay," he said as if it were commonplace, "and when we are with them, they tell us that we are not alive either."
So here I stand, looking out at a frozen landscape where no life exists. Once there were trees and fields; now, a barren and monotone wasteland. Once there was water flowing through the land, but now it's dry and cracked, and the air smells like something rotting, something dead.
"These are all still memories of a bygone era," he continued, taking my arm. "How they were then, as they are now. Do you see it?"
"No," I replied hesitantly.
He turned around and continued looking. "It is an area where you can lose yourself, forgetting about your troubles, even for a little while.
The wind howls across a landscape that used to be living. It's nothing more than a past whisper, bringing us back into our minds for remembrance, but in our hearts, we know better. Our souls tell us that this time, what came before and all that follows will soon meet their end.
"People will come to the wastelands and hide here and there, and in time, they will see what they did not see before."
I said I'd be glad to accompany him into that space if he could show me how, and we went together, roaming around that great emptiness. It's simply there, floating in the void, and never changes. The colours are the same, it is always dark, it is always silent, and it never moves.
"Is it alive?" I asked, diverting my gaze from the terrifying emptiness that seemed to move without pause as if it were a massive hole into nothingness. And yet I could feel it still there, an unstoppable force pressing on me from all sides, as if some cosmic law required it.
"No, it's not alive," he answered quickly, trying to sound reasonable. "It's not a living thing at all."
Then he straightened his voice and looked into my eyes as I tried to understand what he was telling me.
"It's an idea, and, as you see, ideas are alive," he said and then immediately returned his eyes to the silent place, trying to avoid further comment.
All creatures come from somewhere else; they arrive injured, having endured loss and misery, yet they persevere, and occasionally, when things become terrible, they come here to heal themselves. Some came here by choice, those who came here by necessity, and those who were never supposed to be here but wound up here nonetheless.
"They tell us that the dead here do not decay," he said as if it were commonplace, "and when we are with them, they tell us that we are not alive either."
So here I stand, looking out at a frozen landscape where no life exists. Once there were trees and fields; now, a barren and monotone wasteland. Once there was water flowing through the land, but now it's dry and cracked, and the air smells like something rotting, something dead.
"These are all still memories of a bygone era," he continued, taking my arm. "How they were then, as they are now. Do you see it?"
"No," I replied hesitantly.
He turned around and continued looking. "It is an area where you can lose yourself, forgetting about your troubles, even for a little while.
The wind howls across a landscape that used to be living. It's nothing more than a past whisper, bringing us back into our minds for remembrance, but in our hearts, we know better. Our souls tell us that this time, what came before and all that follows will soon meet their end.
"People will come to the wastelands and hide here and there, and in time, they will see what they did not see before."
