There was no huge event that happened that changed everything. Or at least I don’t remember syncopation in the time line. Nothing ever seemed like that “IT” moment when everything would never or ever be.
And it’s not that anything was flat either. Maybe it’s better to say that I never viewed my memory as a timeline at all. I never thought of things individuated from other events. Moments were never separated forms. They merged and danced with other moments and created a tapestry or a hammock. My life laid on a hammock- grass growing up in between the fabric in the lush summertime moments and ice pulling other moments into sharp clarity in crystal pain.
Time has a milky feel- spread out on a big paper. Colors bleed into one another and form images. Familiar themes emerge and run throughout. Sometimes odd bits are introduced and they stand out but often they are the more boring and mundane elements of time. So they are discarded as irrelevant.
The paper all this happens on is dimensionless- it is very small and very large within the same breath. This is not odd or curious. It merely is.
The milk paint colors can we worked over- they can be pushed back or pulled out. But once the color is placed on the paper, it changes the paper and cannot be erased. Even the act of erasing an image leaves impressions upon the paper- the fibers rubbed away and a new layer exposed. The way this new surface would hold the milk paint colors would be different than the other layers. That difference would prove to be a curious moment that would invoke further inspection and thereby exposing the under-drawing of what was before.
So best to not erase…best to just move on to a new part of the paper. After all the paper is boundless. Maybe.