We were supposed to write about a memory. It was supposed to be a memoir of sorts. Unfortunately, I think memoirs are very contrived and come from a place that I don't like to write from. So, as I sat down in my chair to write I thought about what would make a memoir that fit my personal integrity. I closed my eyes and a memory appeared as always. I saw a swirling DNA with my classmates climbing on it. The backdrop was set but I couldn't locate the source of the emotion, so I created one and began to write this.
I stand with my feet pointed towards the spiraling DNA play item. The children infesting it crawl over it like slugs. They are beautiful, dirty and perfect in every way. The teachers surround us and their eyes are etched black with longing for what they watch. I turn towards the beached whale on the other side of the cement. He is infested with maggots and parasites and these parasites are my classmates. They have smiles cut into their faces and they slide and run and make muscles pull muscles until soreness dilapidates their bodies. I want nothing more than to join them on the adventure of early life, but I can't make myself. It is too meaningless. So I walk towards the cool glass doors that lead into the museum. Maybe I can find some sort of meaning inside the walls of history.
I walk in and instantly I am grateful for my decision because the air is cool and my peers are no where to be found. But lab professors press down the hallways and through spectacles, stare off into the white voids of infinite scientific hypothesis. Are they any different from the children playing upon the DNA?
I figure these learned professors seek the same broad meanings as the children. All they want are answers. The difference is growth. Growth through hair loss and belly fat bloating the seekers, and growth through loss of creativeness and growth through death. They stare into mirrors and see images of their parents. At the bottom of everything they are the same.
I walk towards an exhibit for cavemen. I read the column that tells of their history and a line stands out to me.
"The australopithecus brains lacked the capacity for rational though. They relied on instinct to gather food and survive."
What a way to live. Human brains have swollen too big, and the torrential thoughts convolute themselves around singular ideas. I think the same things as every single person surrounding me. Their experience is the exact same as mine. If this were to be not true then everyone would have written a book by now. Because of this stark reality, humans rely on the labor of others to solve problems for them, and they grow unhealthy in the process. This only works toward disrupting our uniqueness.
The universe, I realize standing in this spot, is simply an event horizon of which each individual consciousness is hurling towards at terminal velocity. As we get ever nearer to the horizon the personas of all of us mesh together and entwine and we lose our individuality and quickly we are lost in the lack of physical imagining.
I walk back outside and continue to stare at the DNA and the children who climb and play endlessly.
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