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Where do memories go once we’ve lost our ability to summon them?
“Maybe,” he says, “a place looks different when you know you’re seeing it for the last time. Or maybe it’s knowing no one will ever see it again. Maybe knowing no one will see it again changes it.” “Changes the place or how you see it?” “Both.”
What is a seed if not the purest kind of memory, a link to every generation that has gone before it?
Every memory everyone has ever had will eventually be underwater. Progress is a storm and the wings of everything are swept up in it.
Seeds are the dreams plants dream while they sleep.
I wonder about how the sky can be a huge, blue nothingness and at the same time it can also feel like a shelter.
Sky
A river never stops. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, forgetting, sleeping, mourning, dying—the rivers are still running.
“The doctor says what you see is only real in your head.” “Real in my head?” whispers Esther. “Isn’t everything that’s real only real in our heads?”
Why, Esther wonders, do any of us believe our lives lead outward through time? How do we know we aren’t continually traveling inward, toward our centers?
You bury your childhood here and there. It waits for you, all your life, to come back and dig it up.
