Forward movement

My mother talks non-stop at the dining table. The stories she recounts ad nauseam can start from the 1950s. I’ve heard different versions of the same incident umpteen times, and know how people and stories change inside one’s head.

I look around a little more and find this to be a widespread disease with people who’ve crossed midlife. “No, not again…”, I cry inwardly, but cannot stop wondering at ingenuity of the human mind even in the weary state. Stories get transformed to suit the present, and sometimes the storyteller does not realise it. The change in perspective is so gradual, so imperceptible and so utterly self-centred.

Is there a ghost in my living room? I pat the shadow and welcome it. It’s so harmless compared to the ghosts that live in human minds. They reduce a human being to a mindless zombie, a cassette playing on auto-replay, a sound system with no switch-off option.

All I hope and pray
just keep me on forward paths
-no rewind buttons
where mornings bring a new day
and thoughts find new horizons

12 thoughts on “Forward movement

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