Why not question reality, actually?

The most vivid memories one has are usually remembered because they are the most vital experiences engorged with the “realest” feelings. However, memories fade with time—rotten, in fact, over time if not relived. Sometimes these blurred memories may even allow the thinker to doubt, if skeptical enough, the realness of these memories, moreover, the activities engaged in the memories. How can one persist to feel real about the memories when they become so abstract and dreamlike, which consequently brings in the following question of, how shall one remain faithful to these feelings and experiences that once felt real, in the forsaken form of decayed memories? 

What is the reason not to be so skeptical of the epistemology of the events that our memories carry? You could be dreaming this very moment and you wouldn’t even be able to know it. Something can easily be remembered as realistic events when it has never happened, and episodes of reality often occur without one’s awareness, thought-process, thus not to even expect it to make its way to the hippocampus. Reality happens in our everyday’s business and when we are asleep... or does it? Until time machine is invented, how is one able to prove the happening of something, realistically? You just can’t. 

Amnesia is a real thing. People lose memories; sometimes of proximal knowledge, sometimes—eventually for some—everything. Names, identities, moments, achievements, knowledge, meanings... How are those surrounding the forgetters supposed to define what’s real? What is real to the forgetters, then? Because for all they know, the achievements and families that they are informed to have built certainly don’t exist. “Nope, never even heard of it.”

So why is philosophy of epistemology regarded as silly and pointless by some people? Have they not once felt real and more sure than ever about something and then losing that grip of sureness? Does it actually mean anything to be certain about something? Maybe, at the moment. When people make vows, promises, oaths, and all these words to describe the gesture of guaranteeing something, either about the past or the future, they still swear by the moment. Forever perhaps only lives in the moment, when the very word is said, or when one is completely and entirely sure about what they are feeling—when they are feeling the realest feelings.  

Space

Space — liminal, imaginary, abandoned, abstract, locative, in-between, nominal, temporal...

Where do you want to be at this very moment? 

I want to go back to that morning when we stepped outside of the electro club at 8 30 in the morning. My hearing, as if shifted gear, as if I changed the radio station, was like separated from the sound of the open-air by something... maybe something like a pair of headphones, or a piece of plastic, that I could almost hear the sound of the space — the space on the streets of Berlin on a spring morning. 

I was not sure if I felt tired, though we stayed up the entire night dancing. I actually don’t remember the dancing part, specifically, but the memory of my self physically being there is clear in my mind. 

We walked in silence, and I pointed out that we were walking in silence, then you said, “it’s like what they say in that movie: that’s when you truly feel comfortable.”

Yes, “when you can just shut the fuck up and enjoy the silence together.”

Whenever I am up early in the morning and am in good company, I always feel like I have entire freedom to do whatever the hell I want, for the rest of the day. That feeling is so incredibly exciting and has so much anticipation to it. It’s like you have all the time in the world. 

I also want to linger in that moment when I imprinted the images into my memory. Images of you sitting in the train, looking out and in thoughts; or when you met me at the train station with your headphones on. You saw me and you smiled. 

I want to be in my small dormitory room again, not in the state when I moved out — blank, just blank — but when photographs of my friends are on the wall, my papers all over the table, light dimly lit, pile of clothes on the chair, bed undone. I would lean out the open window, and light a cigarette. I remember the time when I thought I was exhaling bits of my soul out the window along with the smoke into blue-blackness, because I thought the concept of love was completely and finally crushed for me. It was done. It was over; no more loving and I couldn’t physically imagine being so weak again. There was no more of me to afford. 

But where am I at the moment? 

I am in so many different places. So many. Every hour I feel like I am in at least two different types of space simultaneously. I am walking around in a multicultural city with a so-called “hybrid” identity, where there is a front of interstices, but it is just a front. So much energy poured out into fronting in this country.

I am in silence at home when words should be exchanged, but they just cannot be uttered out. There is just nothing to say, or is there? My mother said, “sometimes it just feels so pathetic eh? There’s nothing to say to each other in the family.” 

I am taking bits of my time out to live the past in the present. 

I am, however, also in a place where I am constantly looking for change. I don’t want changes to stop occurring, otherwise I’d feel stale. 

I am busy, but I don’t seem to be working all the time. I have no time, but I do. 

People often say, oh how I wish to be two places at a time right now. They probably are, just don’t realize how damn confusing it is. 

Hemingway

Cannot resist the impulsion to wanting to share this with you, because it made my heart throb.

From A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway:

"A girl came in the café and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a face fresh as a newly minted coin...

...I looked at her and she disturbed me and made me very excited. I wish I could put her in the story, or anywhere, but she had placed herself so she could watch the street and the entry and I knew she was waiting for someone. So I went on writing.

...I've seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil.
   Then I went back to writing and I entered far into the story and was lost in it. I was writing it now and it was not writing itself and I did not look up nor know anything about the time nor think where I was nor oder any more rum St James. I was tired of rum St James without thinking about it. Then the story was finished and I was very tired. I read the last paragraph and then I looked up and looked for the girl and she had gone. I hope she's gone with a good man, I thought. But I felt sad.

...After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love, and I was sure this was a very good story although I would not know truly how good until I read it over the next day."