Tis a peculiar place, that where memories reside. Peculiar still that they call it a ‘bank’ when it’s really nothing of the sort.
In a bank assets are stored. Neatly. Sequentially. With order and reason.
One may consciously choose to select a memory at any given time, to access that data, analyse it, delete it even. Deposit new memories. It would make sense.
But the place where memories reside is not a database. And it cares little for reason or sense.
The place where memories reside is more like a pool. Fluid. Abstract. Prone to distortion.
Memories float. Some lurk in the depths, some drift to the surface. Some are such permanent fixtures. Staking a significant spot, standing the test of time, yet slowly becoming hidden by moss.
In this pool, of tantalising temptation, memories drift, sometimes they sink. Sometimes they plunge straight to the bottom, causing waves and dragging ones soul into darkness and despair. They can twist themselves into a vortex. They can lie.
Memories. The past instantaneously becoming the present. A flashback! Days gone by. History. His story. Your story. Mine.
If memories really lived in a bank I’d like to think they’d be 100% unequivocally reliable.
Accurate views of events. Captured in HD. All 365 degrees. That way they’d be irrefutable replicas of who, what, where, when and how.
We couldn’t question them.
If memories lived in a bank our records would match precisely. And we could replay our mutual scenes, with confidence and conviction, knowing we witnessed the exact same thing.
But the place where memories reside isn’t a bank. And it doesn’t care for clarity.
It was never crystal clear to begin with. How could it be? The data was constructed by another force entirely. Perception.
You see the place where memories reside is governed by perception.
Your goggles, my goggles.
Perception. Now that is something peculiar…