History rewrites itself every morning. Coffee in my Bill-mug, only half the kick that it used to be, but enough to fool my brain into waking up a little more. My breakfast routine, the only consistency within an otherwise unpredictable day full of highs and lows as I surf the universal waves that come rolling in from a place that is familiar but long forgotten. That is, the emotional ties that would have coloured my moments have changed hue, and faithfully mirror this version of my ancient self, still fresh out of the box, like my Mac, my revised window to the world. Every moment is like that, it slips away unnoticed, slinking off into the broad arc of memory and equal forgetting, eager for the moment when you hit upon the right sequence, and full of renewed charge, it surges back into immediate thought, rewritten, yet new and unused. Gone but not forgotten, and never really gone.
I capture this moment in earnest, convinced that I am capturing magic, fooling time for a split second before it disappears from view. But in my overzealous desire to stop time from slipping, I instead create a moment anew, unbeknownst to my cunning mind. The mug and the words in the image I see are just traces of an original thought, a moment that is ever evolving into infinite permutations of itself, each seemingly the same, yet markedly different, marked by the shifting light, altered perceptions, and fresh eyes that are not trained to distinguish the differences. Generations of mugs genetically similar, but not quite the same. The game is fun though.
I allow myself to forget the many moments and mugs that have gone before the one I see now before me. It is the same mug I tell myself, and my foolish brain believes the instruction. My foolish brain is comfortable with the progression, and the imposed familiarity of a pattern recognised, of established routine. But my stomach tickles, and my intuition giggles at the obvious, but very sweet gaffe. My intuition remembers them all, tipping the nod and smiling at those moments turned memory, that fire away like photons in the retina of the soul. Remembered when needed. The mug I see before me a composite of those infinite permutations, forged in the slippery moment into one solid thing, so my brain tells me. Clever brain, genius intuition. Tasty coffee.
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