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Everything We See Is A Memory
Everything we see is a memory,
everything we recall,
our reality.
Reality.
Reality is a memory.
Everything takes time to reach us,
and every bit of data is corrupted by each passing beat.
The further away we are from reality, the more corrupted its impressions are.
Time corrupts like a cold acid,
rotting reality into lace.
There can be no perfect reality,
Plato must absorb the universe and in absorbing, it is destroyed to some degree.
Where then is the future?
Unremembered.
Is a mind somewhere, somewhen now recalling our future? No.
Our memories of Plato are corrupted.
Our memories of Descartes are corrupted.
To them, we have a purity.
Only the unknown is perfect.
When it is known, it becomes tainted.
With machines we record, remember.
With speech, writing, the Internet, digital storage, memories set in stone.
All grasping at reality, clarity, truth.
Bony hands in the mist, clawing towards a perfection.
At what is real.
What is really there.
Everything we see is a memory,
everything we recall,
our reality.
Reality.
Reality is a memory.
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