Beyond Memory

Last time I wrote about the mind palace, I told you about a staircase that leads to nowhere. For a few days, in my meditation sessions, I have been able to walk towards nowhere. And tonight, as I type the reality of this fictional place, I am convinced that we are all parched out fragments of an ocean. 

Memo, my dear dog, stayed back in the room that greets the light and the Neem tree, to him, this place essentially does not exist. The first few stairs were heavy alleviation, almost making my leg shiver, followed were the steps that were not accounted for as strain. It was almost as if gravity had given up, and I followed a motion that I have never felt on the planet I account as my reality. The staircase simply disappeared as the darkness grew all around me, embracing me to the extent that I could not sense my form. I am not sure if ‘I’ was there anymore or what was, but I had a feeling that I had known this place before. I tried to feel my memory palace again and I realised that it was far away from me, and from this distance, I could only see the fragments that held accord to the darkness. 

In the room of poetry, I greeted a similar void. Not the darkness, but this feeling of forgetfulness. Maybe that’s where I was, in the realm of the forgotten. From the distance, I could see the room of poetry filled with sheets that exhibit nothing, absolutely nothing on them. I first realised that I never remember the words I write when I was asked to instantaneously speak in a classroom. 

“Can you speak that one line, that you are proud of, as a poet?” Rajnish Mishra looked at me with all the hope in his eyes that I will speak something marvellous. I have recorded about 300 poems in a document, but no digital access had a point, so I drifted to the mind palace and held onto the shelf of poetry. It was a horror that held me when I realised that I only have empty pages in the stack. Not even a single line. So I had to make up a new line, just to keep the flow of my favourite professor and I said,

“I greet memory as music that distorts time,
Ripples of the ancient rhyme,

Feeding Eternity to Infinity,

Repeating the same line.”

That fragment of memory was the last small sight of my own consciousness that I had known before being absolutely taken away by the ephemeral surroundings. The dark had specs of little light forms now, it felt like space, naked space, devoid of time. The forgotten room is what I will call this place. So magnificent that engulfed me with the palace I built. I was just there as a mere observer. A void where most of my poems reside, I could also sense the fever dreams. The more I could give up my own senses, the more the space around me came alife. 

At the edge of my existence, I greeted what I believe should be my soul. A transforming light, that observed all the darkness to form an eye, it blinked. It blinked into a sapphire colour, amphibious frame, then it blinked into a grey iris, a wolf? It blinked into an absolute brown, like a sparrow. It blinked into so many shapes and colours, and it kept changing. Till it transformed into my eyes, and I woke up to find myself asleep on the place I started the meditation. 

5 Comments Add yours

  1. beethovenisdead says:

    You yourself are a beautiful poetry, Newt. And your words are always hit the bullseye. 💜


    1. sagar0vision says:

      Ah! You are my constant 💓 . Thankyou !


  2. Anonymous says:

    This is crazy stuff!


  3. Anonymous says:

    You are the absolute poet ☺️
    Always hit the rhyme so well!


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