Memory

Something so thoughtful, we have been given is memory. The ultimate in Romance. It can be a planted reminder of who we are, where we come from, what we have experienced. Itself, taken root. A piece of your soul that must be beckoned, rubbed, or summoned; primed for the occasion. We will never know what is the Que that gives a memory it's recall, it's entranced cameo. But I have a feeling it belongs in the mystery of Love category. So that we may draw from it's reserved reservoir and go further on to somewhere-that unifies us to others. That's quite a range. From fleeting abyss, to stable home. Ironic. It seems like to me that memory is a Love and a Life of an indeterminate species, that lives on the fringes of reality. It's credentials true, it has documentation. It is a passport to the past. Like a misplaced receipt that is found waving in the breeze. Something tells me that breeze is the breathe of Life. Maybe it's Deja Vu's sister- Intuition, getting it right. No diploma on the wall with this one. But I like her bookless teaching style. I remember alot of good Teachers imparting from memory and the feelings attached flavored their lesson uniquely, as it drudged the past into the present. Maybe sometimes showing us angles and facets, faces, places, turning on it's fawcet on a need to know basis. As we drink it in.