Life Entry

     The world will not fall of death. Death is life, and life, before dying, leaves its print, its traces. Let us not blame death. Rather, the world will fall of history. Or maybe death, too. With each passing death, each moving on, each flame ended and renewed, slivers of memory stack up in the world, in the mind, on the sides of a novel's page as scribblings, ambling forward, or backward, whichever direction, when the mind steps into newer, more present, more uncertain times. It is that we do not know uncertain the past truly is; we leave it behind and yet embrace it in the end: eating ice cream, the face of our mother, our first kiss. We call it heritage but we place it in glass and do not move it. It stacks and becomes heavier, and one day history will be too heavy for us to bear. And our memories will crush us, like chests of artifacts. With the way things are going, I do not think there is such a thing as national memory. Archive fever, perhaps. But national memory? Schizophrenia, perhaps.