When a memory comes alive, it becomes fluent. It speaks to you in tongues you never thought that existed. Accuracy ceases to matter and the sublimity of your most naked experiences echoes through every cell of your body. When a memory comes alive, it becomes mythical and transparent; it pierces your veins with colours, smells and that particularly rhythmical sensation of constant movement. Impeccable in its palliating formlessness, it perhaps screams or whispers. And if you have the capacity to hear, the wholeness of what a memory consists of, stays with you. It nestles in that very exclusive and deeply private spot of your heart and it allows you to fondle it from within. Or it leaves you broken, it dismantles your ego and crushes your selfhood. It leaves you thinking that all truth is dark ; you start questioning why you still can’t shake it off your head, it swallows the sum of your parts one by one with alarming impatience, it does not quite forgive your softness. It devours. It exhausts the fuck out of your system. It feels so unimaginably real that, somehow, it becomes you. And whether its intensity outlives you or not, it’s still passionately persistent and affecting your own little “reality” show. When a memory comes alive – you are.