It's been a while since I've heard David's voice. In the intervening years, I haven't really thought about him all that often -- being generous, it has been, maybe, three or four times? Somewhere at the back of my mind, I think I had a fear that if I set aside the time and really listened again, I'd have to conclude that...he didn't really speak to me anymore. There have been many changes in my life and mind, and it surely meant something that neither of them saw the need to call to him. It would be best, then, to keep sealed whatever pleasant memories that remained, and spare him from the cold, harsh judgement my current self seems oddly adept at.

Parts of those fear were true enough -- I no longer define the boundaries of my mind by song, or anything, really. To say that there is a deep dark where once there was feeling sounds depressive, but I don't see it that way; it's just a different way of being. I say dark, and not emptiness, because there is something hidden away there -- something I don't feel the inclination to dig out and reflect upon, but a presence nonetheless. And there are still sparks that can bring light to this crypt, even if for a moment, and bring a familiar wave of feeling. David, I'm pleased to say, is one of them.

I still remember walking on an unremarkable path, humming his words to myself, remarking at the gift I was bestowed -- being able to carry those words with me, use them as a shield, a sword, and many things more in all manner of internal battle. After many years, it is hard to say if I won or lost the war; is this silence that of peace, or imprisonment? Either way, no one writes to the colonel, and he doesn't much feel the need to call for reinforcements.

I also remember an intense feeling I had, many times during that period, where I was convinced that next to the power of a well-crafted word, all else was immaterial. Studying, and responding to, these words was then the only thing of any value or meaning. I could see that, feel that, and yet could not act, bound as I was (as I am) by the statutes of a world and life grounded in rigour. The years have only made this disparity worse, even if that fact no longer pains me as much (or at all). But what is hidden is not forgotten. Life may be proceeding at a nauseating pace, but all this time will have to pause, eventually. And when it does, I know the first person who I hope will call again.

 In years gone by, I declared myself to have a proclivity to play the role of Observer rather than Experiencer, and focussed considerable energy on lamenting this regrettable state of affairs. The one consolation was that, as Observer, I could easily transition to Recorder, and make a detailed tabulation of every inclination and introspection substantive enough to survive transcription. The larger value of this exercise notwithstanding, at least there was something to show for all this Observing.

What does it mean, then, that now Recording requires an energy I simply do not possess? On occasion, I have pondered if it signifies a slip into a state of deep and perpetual ennui, if not worse. Well I wonder. Perhaps by treating events as just that, rather than Lessons, I inadvertently grow closer to being an actual Experiencer. Without the self getting in the way and muddying things, events can take their natural cosmic course and just happen. There is someone to greet them, of course; but does that someone really have to be me?

True enough, there is no longer a record of them, so it is not immediate to the external world that they (or anything else) transpired. This is by no means a great loss, but does make reminiscence more vulnerable to the vagaries of memory. The trick, then, is to be able to detach the Experiencing and Recording selves, to simultaneously be and not be in every moment of import. That seems a goal worthy of a lifetime of meditation, but, frankly, is a summit I doubt I shall master. More likely, I shall have to be content with these ghosts of memory, whose faint wisps come into view under very particular circumstances -- a lull in daily life, an external stimuli, and a familiar temporal landmark, amongst them. If their trails are soft, softer still are my attempts at preserving them; but, for now, let them be a reminder that there is still something beyond the quotidian demands, a quest that does not yield just because you do.