We are our memory,
we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes,
that pile of broken mirrors.
(verse from Jorge Luis Borges’s 1969 poem “Cambridge”)
It’s interesting how as time goes on, memories tend to coalesce around a specific narrative. Events come and go, and yet one’s mind eventually settles around an internally agreed truth of what “is” and “isn’t”. Continue reading “Making Sense of Memories”