The Tides of Memory

Etchings of the Passed

Just outside my window, the waves whisper secrets of ancient tides. For a long time, I brushed them off as mere echoes of the wind, an orchestra with no conductor.

The next morning, the shoreline's story was rewritten, and mine along with it - footprints and fading lines drawn in the sand.

We write our narratives, donning our lives like suits of armor, only to hang them on the wordless gallows of time.

Resurfacing Narratives

Beneath the layers of my childhood memories lies a forgotten carpet of embarrassment and pride. Visions of my mother sifting endlessly through newspapers, redacting the world around her.

"Do not speak of the past that no longer exists," she would pronounce, a mantra echoed through our lineage. Yet history finds its way, like water under the doors of our consciousness.

I often ponder what her hands might have written had they been less concerned with sterilization and more with communion.

History's Palimpsest

During the relentless storm of 1987, a forgotten street lay uncovered – cobblestones disinterred, telling of a thriving market long buried beneath soil and speculation.

Now reconstructed as a museum, alive in the retelling of archaeologists; oddly serene without the chaos of lives once bustling through passageways.

Yet, the noise still lurks, beneath echoes of laughter and shouts, another story clawing at the surface to be known, if only to be forgotten once more.