Life, in a way, is but a haphazard string of memories, the beads constantly shifting and disappearing, new beads blooming into existence along the line of consciousness. We are our memories: of the past, of the future, and this very moment: right now, as you read this, tiny beads of memory are forming in your mind cataloging what is currently occurring.

Even books, and the stories contained within them, are like memories, only, those of others, beyond our world, our dimension, and they become interwoven with our own like a necklace constructed of beads of alternating colour, until they make up a part of us. There is something beautiful about that, how a similar memory, evoked by images or words, can be formed in the minds of so many, for so many to have a similarly hued bead hanging upon the thread of their consciousness.

Most wonderful of all, we can pick up a bead at our whim, to marvel at its shade and colour and delicate crafting, to relive a lovely memory when our hearts are dark and our lips closed. In that way, memories are a source of comfort. And though bad memories assault us like a whip of beads, beating us about the head again and again, we are able to shift along the line until, with a gentle rattling, like a priest fiddling with rosary beads, our fingers touch upon a sweet remembrance.

And when we die? The string unspools, breaks apart in a great, up-flung wrenching, and thousands upon thousands of beads scatter into the ether like so many tiny souls taken to the sky, and are lost. Yet others remain, however, encased in books and stories and films, to live on, and form pearls of memory in the minds of posterity.


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