The Makings Of

Memories and time have always been something I've struggled with in ways, like a book read long ago; the words are lost but perhaps you can recall the plot, maybe even some of your favorite parts. What if your life was like that? Like a once well loved novel tossed to the side once stripped of its vast of knowledge. A story waiting to be told in the subconscious of those witness to it, stories that are either refused and ignored or merely misplaced in the mind. Where does one ever start with an earliest memory? How concrete of a thought, image or action constitutes as a memory? In my minds eye when I think of my childhood I get an emptiness that when explored heeds nothing but disappointment. One of the more tangible early memories I have is of my family's house in Windsor, a cute little white country house. Our road seemed to stretch on forever (I would often think this on the multiple bus rides to and from school), acres between our nearest neighbors and home to the inspiration for my career choice. Though our houses were separated by miles you could still smell them; strong, towering horses muscled and bred to work. One day my neighbor came by and allowed me to go with her for a ride, when she rode up on horseback all I could do was stare, this beautiful beast was almost if not taller than my roof! I remember all the different animals we used to have, their species and who in the family they belonged to but other things are just a blur and I don't understand how I've forgotten what was once important to me. I remember the first birthday that I had had in that house; only one boy showed up (he spent the day in tears because of it) and I had awoken to find my gerbil mysteriously dead in its cage. I wasn't even ten yet but I still knew what type of person I was, a gerbil killer!

Whenever I try too hard to think of my childhood it comes and goes, like being able to see filaments in water when the light is shining, how the tiny specks seem to dance in the ray of light only to disappear upon focus. But is does your past really have that strong of a correlation to what and whom you are now? As an adult I can definitely admit that the past does have certain influences, but where does it end? When does the child die and the adult take its place? Am I the adventurous little tomboy or the teenager filled to the brim with stress, anxiety and emptiness if you could believe it. Am I the grade nine student that begged to stay home day after day so I wouldn't have to be in this wretched place? Or am I the grade twelve that attends every day with a silent scream on their lips? How do you actually measure how old someone is? Is it the amount of years they've been on the earth, the amount of wrinkles around their eyes, the amount of lovers they've had or how well they can score on a test?  You wish to know of my past and how that has shaped the person you see in front of you today; so how can I answer a question about someone I don't know? Such questions have always seemed out of place to me; completely directed at the wrong person. How am I supposed to know the things that effected me and didn't as a child? Isn't there someone, anyone else that was there and has more faith in their memories than someone who doesn't believe in any? But the worst part is....who really gives a damn about what made you like you are now? I supposed someone very interested in the individual; but what was it that sparked the interest in the first place? People are only ever interested in the gift they over look; the present.