Any other Kind of Fable

I have a memory. Of a memory.

I remember that I remembered. Once.

A scene. 

I remember that I remembered vividly.

But I can’t grasp it. The scene. The memory.

I can’t feel it. Anymore.

It’s authenticity. 

It’s vigour, it’s force. 

It’s hidden

under the thick cloak of another past.

A foretime embedded in another life.

Like a doll in a doll.

A memory of a memory. 

What is it worth?

It’s like looking into the mirror and all you can see 

is the reflection of a reflection.

The more I try to embrace it 

the more it fades into the background.

Away from the spotlight of my conscious mind

into diffusivity like vapour in air.

Has it really happened? The scene.

Did it really take place?

Or is it just the memory of a figment

and as such a delusion in itself?

A castle in the air

built on the foundation of a fantasy.

A lie about a lie

entangled in the net of a farce.

But then again.

History is nothing more than a story among many.

With no greater claim to credibility

than any other kind of fable.

So, I might as well 

just remember the memory

remember it’s vigour.

And remember it’s force. 

I might as well just wed the two,

consolidate them into one.

So it can morph into a story

that once was worth being remembered.

"I  can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past" ~ Virginia Wolf