"Those aren't your memories. They're somebody else's"
Blade Runner. 1982.
The father held his young son's hand tightly, very tightly, as the train approached the opposite platform at Aldermaston station. Together they watched as the train finally ground to a halt. The father picked up his son, smiled at him and motioned to him to wave at the passengers on the train opposite.
The son, half perplexed, waved at the strangers on the train. No one waved back. The father and son looked up and down all carriages of the train for a few minutes, waving, hoping. No one waved back. The son stopped waving.
The father spotted a stranger in the last carriage. The stranger was waving. The father pointed animatedly to the stranger. Motioning his son to look. His son looked up at the stranger. He did not know the stranger who had waved back and smiled at him. He outstretched his small hand waved and smiled at the stranger.
Blade Runner. 1982.
The father held his young son's hand tightly, very tightly, as the train approached the opposite platform at Aldermaston station. Together they watched as the train finally ground to a halt. The father picked up his son, smiled at him and motioned to him to wave at the passengers on the train opposite.
The son, half perplexed, waved at the strangers on the train. No one waved back. The father and son looked up and down all carriages of the train for a few minutes, waving, hoping. No one waved back. The son stopped waving.
The father spotted a stranger in the last carriage. The stranger was waving. The father pointed animatedly to the stranger. Motioning his son to look. His son looked up at the stranger. He did not know the stranger who had waved back and smiled at him. He outstretched his small hand waved and smiled at the stranger.
The train pulled slowly away from Aldermaston station and into the dark tunnel.
I sighed as I settled back into my seat in the last carriage. Before the train would arrive into London Paddington Station, the young child would have forgotten all about me.
Contaminated Memories. Stored in shattered glass cabinets. Beside the dead dead rocks. Unprotected and open. Nothing private. Nothing sacrosanct. Nothing protected. All open. Forever under surveillance. Day after day, after
day.
Blocked & Worthless.
“At grief so deep the tongue must wag in vain; the language of our sense and memory lacks the vocabulary of such deep pain.”
― Dante Alighieri, Inferno
I sighed as I settled back into my seat in the last carriage. Before the train would arrive into London Paddington Station, the young child would have forgotten all about me.
Contaminated Memories. Stored in shattered glass cabinets. Beside the dead dead rocks. Unprotected and open. Nothing private. Nothing sacrosanct. Nothing protected. All open. Forever under surveillance. Day after day, after
day.
Blocked & Worthless.
“At grief so deep the tongue must wag in vain; the language of our sense and memory lacks the vocabulary of such deep pain.”
― Dante Alighieri, Inferno
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