You know that deja-vu feeling, the sudden nauseating sensation of familiarity, of realisation and of recognition? I guess its just those frozen tendrils of time finally unfurling like a fern on a warm day. Sometimes I can feel the brush of it against my skin, taunting me to remember the context but no, it’s nothing but the memory of a familiar scent, a dangling, isolated pocket of time, set apart from its peers, and appearing unannounced in another garden. Just the whisper of a memory of a day like this, and the moments continue to unfurl one by one, but never the same twice.
Do we decide to store those last delicately wrapped memories? Chose to lock them away for safety now or in the future, or is it an integral part of time progression as we perceive it? It’s that click when you realise the answer to a crossword puzzle two days too late, or the dizzy panic of reliving a moment, but I wonder if it’s all the same, our minds playing these tricks to keep us wondering, to keep on watering those old gardens to see what uncovers itself?