The past sits on my tongue, an aphasic weight. It is not an absence, but a presence, a collection of moments so vivid they have no easy words. I can see the afternoon light slanting across the worn floorboards of the old house, the dust motes dancing like forgotten spirits, but the feeling—the sheer, aching thereness of it—evades articulation. My mind is a vast library, but the books are locked, the titles faded to myth.
I have an ocean of ideas at the tip of my tongue, a treasury of lived seconds, but when I open my mouth, the words disappear like an ice cube in a summer’s day. I had it. Like water cupped in my hands, it slipped right through. The memory is all bubbling underneath, a current of silent film, full of motion and shadow but lacking the crucial dialogue. The best stories, the ones that shaped the geography of my soul, remain in a private, untranslatable language.
Sometimes I grasp at a single, shining detail: the metallic scent of rain on hot asphalt, the specific curve of a handrail, the way a certain song used to end. These fragments are signposts to an entire world I can no longer describe, only feel. There is no neat ending, because a life isn’t a story; it’s a whole Milky Way of events, and I am forever picking out constellations I can name. I am left with a silent, rich knowing, a collection of memories that refuse to be contained by syntax, content to simply be in the quiet corners of my mind, eternally tongue-tied
A brilliant writing, dear Adagio! I will never stop marveling at your wording and imagery! Especially your creative comparisons leave me awe- struck!
Thank you, Elke.
This piece resonated with me on a personnal level, I have been recluse for a while and words can no longer describe the intensity of my life experiences, hence I keep them private at the core of my soul, for my own enjoyment.
I enjoyed every word, beautifully portrayed.
I appreciate that, Jade.