For some reason, recently, my memories have seemed like travelers, standing on the platform of a train station, as my train rolls slowly past. I used to see my memories as stationary scenes, like watching a TV show. Now it’s as though I’m moving past them. They are close, and then slowly start to fade, as my train moves on. There is a feeling of loss like I’ve never felt before.
I know I’ve never been able to return to the past, but I seemed to be able to linger longer in the reverie, as I pondered my memories. But now I imagine myself moving away from them. They stand motionless on the platform, in the subtle orange glow of an Autumn sunset, watching me as I move away. It is a disconcerting feeling. The people on the platform don’t speak and hardly show any emotion at all, though some seem to wear a faint smile, and I think I see some wave to me, with a look of gentle sadness in their eyes, waving goodbye.
As I look down the train track, it’s not the future I see, rather, it’s as if there are other memories to review before I pass on. It’s like the scene from a movie when a retiring general inspects his troops one last time. In that scene, he pauses before certain soldiers with whom he has particularly special memories and perhaps says a few poignant passing words. But in my vision, the train never pauses. It is a slow, but sickeningly consistent pace. I have just enough time to recognize and recall the events associated with each face before they slide behind, as I roll further down the tracks.
I’m not sure why this vision has come to me of late. I have an inkling that it’s related to the recent sense I have, for the first time in my life, that I’m getting older. I have physical pains that never go away now and I don’t seem to have the vim and vigor I once had. I struggle more than I used to to recall names and information, once so solidly lodged in my mind. I have often told people, even well into my forties, that I felt like I was still in my late twenties, or perhaps early thirties, but not anymore. I feel like I’m firmly floating in my fifties now, and moving swiftly on.
Related to this sense is a resignation toward things I have resisted for years. A feeling that I will not attain to many of my dreams, and yet an accompanying peace with this as well. Mind you, I’m not giving up on them, just accepting of the fact that some of them may very likely never come to be. Greatness is reserved for the few. Most of us won’t even be remembered a hundred years from now, let alone what we did. Our names will rarely be mentioned, except, perchance, as someone scans the relatively short genealogy which someone may have attempted to record.
I started writing down these thoughts on paper. I like to use a pen when recording thoughts. But I’ve migrated to the computer now. It’s just so much easier to edit here. This reminded me of an article I recently read that stated that many people, living today, will be born, live and die, and we won’t have a single handwritten document to remember them by, nothing that they physically touched. What a sad thought. So much character is contained in handwritten notes. How bereft of personality is the typed word. Without handwritten pages, the memory of us will be that much more fleeting.
I recently learned that C.S. Lewis never learned to use a typewriter, and thus, every book of his you’ve ever read, was handwritten, using a dip pen, and then typed by his brother Warnie. How precious these handwritten manuscripts would be today, but he didn’t feel he had room to store them all, and so destroyed every one them! But authors, such as Lewis, because of the sheer quantity of their writings, can show forth a personality, though we’ve never seen their handwritten pages. Most of us will not write enough to be discovered in our mere words. Lewis hated the flippant use of the word “mere.” I can imagine the scowl on his face, had he had read my last sentence. See, I sense that part of his personality, because I’ve read so much of his writing, not because I’ve seen a single handwritten page. The number of his words have left that sort of impact on me.
And “impact” reminds me that I’m supposed to be writing about memories right now. Sorry. Memories are the impact that others have made upon us, the impressions pressed upon our souls. These are what I’m seeing now, as people on a train station platform. So many faces, so many memories, shadowy now in the dimming sunlight. How they’ve all shaped and molded me. Some with gentle brushes, some with heavy blows. Some from years of interaction, some from passing encounters. Funny, I just noticed they’re all wearing coats and hats, each one bundled up. It must be cold there on the platform.
Anyway, these are just some random thoughts I had on the first day of this new year, this new decade. Not sure there’s really a point that I’m getting at here; I just wanted to get these thoughts down before the train moved on. Perhaps they’ll make more sense a little further down the line.
