I was not until I was. Yet that is past. If I am not now, there is no was, because there is no memory. Remembering now my wasness, I realize that the past is a very curious thing. If I uncover yellowing remnants of its existence, its vague lineaments in my memory seem to be marching relentlessly into nonexistence, stayed only by my momentary reflections. Perhaps they are saved ultimately in the cosmic database. Or do they truly particalize in the infinite night?
I was not until I was, then I was not. Until I discover myself again, retrieve myself from the labyrinths of history and the tarnished mirror of memory.
