Every night, as I wait to fall asleep, my mind is filled with memories. All the fragments, pieces strung together that make up a life. The many past lives of my life.
Without to do lists, the urgency of remembering daily tasks, things I would repeat over and over so as to not forget, my mind is free to wander. For some reason, I’m sure a very particular reason, a call to continue on with the ‘doing of the work’, my mind keeps reaching for my memories.
Everything in my memory bank seems to be organized into very neat compartments. A year here, or there, with that person or the other. The time I lived in that apartment, and then several others. A decade, a few years within, time spent in a particular place. Each capsule filled with so many faces, so many events. A feeling which defines it, a soundtrack, a menu.
As this is becoming a regular occurrence, every night a different place in time, every place in time feeling like a lifetime ago, and a life of its own, there is some strange worry setting in. Have I lived so much already?
And there is a disconnect, the life I’m living now, the person that I am, neither is connected in any way to these past lives. Perhaps because they were all lived in one place?
Isn’t it strange, to think I spent almost 30 years in one place, the same buildings and streets, and faces. And the faces I know now, I never knew before. Everything I see and experience now, I have never seen or known before.