Souls and memories can do strange things during trance.

I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is madness - the madness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden things.

[...] there are some experiences and intimations which scar too deeply to permit of healing, and leave only such an added sensitiveness that memory reinspires all the original horror.

MEMORY'S SO
TREACHEROUS.
ONE MOMENT YOU'RE LOST IN A
CARNIVAL
OF
DELIGHTS,
WITH POIGNANT CHILDHOOD
AROMAS
, THE FLASHING NEON OF
PUBERTY,
ALL THAT SENTIMENTAL
CANDY-FLOSS
...

THE
NEXT
, IT LEADS YOU SOMEWHERE YOU DON'T WANT TO GO...

...SOMEWHERE
DARK
AND
COLD,
FILLED WITH THE DAMP, AMBIGUOUS SHAPES OF THINKS YOU'D HOPED WERE
FORGOTTEN.



MEMORIES
CAN BE
VILE, REPULSIVE
LITTLE
BRUTES.
LIKE
CHILDREN,
I SUPPOSE.
HAHA.


BUT CAN WE LIVE
WITHOUT
THEM?
MEMORIES
ARE WHAT OUR
REASON
IS BASED UPON. IF WE CAN'T
FACE
THEM, WE DENY REASON ITSELF!

ALGHOUGH, WHY
NOT?
WE AREN'T
CONTRACTUALLY TIED DOWN
TO
RATIONALITY!


THERE
IS
NO
SANITY CLAUSE!


SO WHEN YOU FIND YOURSELF LOCKED ONTO AN UNPLEASANT TRAIN OF THOUGHT, HEADING FOR THE PLACES IN YOUR PAST WHERE THE SCREAMING IS
UNBEARABLE,
REMEMBER THERE'S ALWAYS
MADNESS.



MADNESS
IS THE
EMERGENCY EXIT...


YOU CAN JUST STEP
OUTSIDE,
AND CLOSE THE DOOR ON ALL THOSE DREADFUL THINGS THAT HAPPENED. YOU CAN LOCK THEM
AWAY...


FOREVER.

"Remembering's dangerous. I find the past such a worrying, anxious place. "The Past Tense," I suppose you'd call it. Memory's so treacherous. One moment you're lost in a carnival of delights, with poignant childhood aromas, the flashing neon of puberty, all that sentimental candy-floss... the next, it leads you somewhere you don't want to go. Somewhere dark and cold, filled with the damp ambiguous shapes of things you'd hoped were forgotten. Memories can be vile, repulsive little brutes. Like children I suppose. But can we live without them? Memories are what our reason is based upon. If we can't face them, we deny reason itself! Although, why not? We aren't contractually tied down to rationality! There is no sanity clause! So when you find yourself locked onto an unpleasant train of thought, heading for the places in your past where the screaming is unbearable, remember there's always madness. Madness is the emergency exit… you can just step outside, and close the door on all those dreadful things that happened. You can lock them away… forever."

Memories can be vile. Repulsive little brutes, like children I suppose. But can we live without them? Memories are what our reason is based upon. If we can't face them, we deny reason itself! Although, why not? We aren't contractually tied down to rationality. There is no sanity clause. So when you find yourself locked down in an unpleasant train of thought, heading for the places in your past where the screaming is unbearable, remember: There's always madness. You can just step outside and close the door, and all those dreadful things that happened, you can lock them away. Madness... is an emergency exit.

But human memory resembles a late-night reveller who has had a few too many drinks: hard as it tries, it just cannot follow a straight line. It staggers through a maze of inversions, often moving in dizzying zigzags, immune to reason and liable to collapse altogether.

Time's the thief of memory

The terror of being judged sharpens the memory: it sends an inevitable glare over that long-unvisited past which has been habitually recalled only in general phrases. Even without memory, the life is bound into one by a zone of dependence in growth and decay; but intense memory forces a man to own his blameworthy past. With memory set smarting like a reopened wound, a man’s past is not simply a dead history, an outworn preparation of the present: it is not a repented error shaken loose from the life: it is a still quivering part of himself, bringing shudders and bitter flavors and the tinglings of a merited shame.

Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of every passion wants some pretence to make it live.

Just when I was beginning to forget, that bird of ill-omen came flapping my way, to rip open with its beak the wounds of memory. All at once shame over the past and the recollection of sin unfolded themselves before my eyes and, seized by a terror so great it made me want to shriek, I could not sit still a moment longer. “How about a drink?” I asked.

The memory
is the not-quite-living museum of our lives.
Sometimes its doors are insufferably wide open
with black stars in a grey sky, and horses
clattering in and out, our dead animals resting here
and there but often willing to come to life again
to greet us, parents and brothers and sisters sit
at the August table laughing while they eat twelve
fresh vegetables from the garden. Rivers, creeks, lakes
over which birds funnel like massive schools of minnows.
In memory the clocks have drowned themselves, leaving
time to the life spans of trees. The world of our lives
comes unbidden as night.

If memories had a limited shelf life, we would be relieved of much of our pain and give our souls and minds a chance to heal. The experience ends, but the memory remains. And this permanence is the secret of our suffering!

No matter how long we exist, we have our memories. Points in time which time itself cannot erase. Suffering may distort my backward glances, but even to suffering, some memories will yield nothing of their beauty or their splendor. Rather they remain as hard as gems.