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Postcards

This box in thin, paper-covered, cardboard, labeled with some long-forgotten shoe brand, dusty, half-crushed many times over and closed with a dry, cracked elastic band, is overstuffed near to bursting with accumulated detritis – the collected jetsam or physical projection into photo printed or enveloped reality - of a life, now existing only in memory, lived over many years, often in aimlessness and searching; seeking but never finding all but only clues, like the writing,  postal cancellations, the names and the places, which fade.

It is, in this way, a representation, in dried, curled, yellowed and fused pulp-fibre, of the mind which, in the act of perceiving the container through orbs fronted by bright blue discs but, concealed by lids that now sag slightly under the pernicious weight of age and, behind, slowly cede their photon sensitivity, lustre and brightness of youth, is also over-filled, oppressed, often confused among the neuronally recorded sights, sounds, voices and impressions forced into the confinement of a similar box comprised of scalp, bone, membrane and meninges; an unfathomably complex, semi-liquid and viscous organ that is the seat of all which I am or know.

What it is that draws me here, I do not know. That connexion is as dim as the scene – a light-deprived and indistinct psychological panorama - in which I now find myself, confined, on a narrow, mist covered, black-sanded, beach strand with, to the one hand, the imposing, monolithic, insurmountable bluff-face of my reality from which, arrogantly or unwittingly, I have chosen to tumble, relinquishing myself to these returning visions and, instead, reside, threatened on the other hand, by the crashing force of lunar-driven, cartaceous stimuli that, beneath the caress of a distant and disembodied extremity, like dipping imagined fingers into subsiding sea-foam, conjure forth past actuality in insistent waves, such that, boundaries waver and collapse under the onslaught – a retaining wall against the insistence of time crumbling.

'Ah!' is my exclamation when, like a child in its first glimmering perception into self-awareness and, taunted by the tactile discoveries of insistent digits, there forms, no, exudes across the horizon of consciousness and intellect no different,  in effect, from, after the subsistence of the tempest's rumbling ferocity and, clouds chased thither by the fitful breath of the wind, the appearance of the fickle yellow moon and, in its wake, at your feet like a leaking soul, the shadow, such that, with the coalescence of disparate senses as sound, scent and sight there comes a pang – a failing brittleness of strength – and keening wail emitted from emptiness and into the void of loss for that is all which remains, finally revealed, naked, raw, heart-rending and exposed, of the memory that is you.

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