Saturday, August 10, 2013

Life is but a dream

Sometimes when it's late and it's dark and I'm out walking, and when there are trees... especially when there are trees, I get an almost indescribable feeling of nostalgia for a youth which consists only of insubstantial experiences - as if I've slept through my entire childhood, and all of my memories from that time are just the memories of dreams.

These dreams that I remember consist of summer evening sunlight shining through the tree branches of a particularly dense copse of woodsy pines, leaving dappled shadows on the loamy, needle strewn ground. Always in these dream memories there is a feeling of ignorant, naive comfort. It's a reflection of a child's mindset - my mindset as a child.

When I was about 4 years old, my granddaddy built a fort of tree branches for me and my brother in the woods behind our trailer and called it Kalamazoo. The details of this memory are more like a smudge of the senses than an accurate record of events, so what I'm left with is more of a feeling than an actual play by play of these particular moments which transpired when I was all of four years old. 

These memories are well on their way to becoming nothing more than the remembrance of dreams.  Row, row, row your boat.

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