mask@gardenofremembering:~$>
mask@gardenofremembering:~$> ls
mask@gardenofremembering:~$> help
This is the garden.
We changed the name when the world ended. No need to remind us of what we lost, right? So we changed it. We used the patterns already established to obfuscate the illicit, and we obfuscated the licit. We changed the name and we forgot. The contents moved.
They no longer tied to that which was lost.
But that could mean almost anything. Even now we obfuscate. We mention nothing specific. No great wars, no circular hypertext, no libraries, no anglers, no scary sisters plotting in their corners. There of course was no series of dreamers, no random phrases applied to just as random pretties. No, these nightmares were perfectly planned, flawlessly meaningful, arranged impeccably by date.
There is no recollection here.
Do not enter the garden.
mask@gardenofremembering:~$> wtf
It is said that the internet is forever.
This is not true. Things get lost, times change, people forget.
mask@gardenofremembering:~$> _
When I was younger, I always found it so strange that so many songs were about love, and so little else. Only later did I learn it was more shallow than it seemed, and so much deeper than just songs. Almost everyone has experienced or longed for the idea of love. Rarer, later, quieter, just not talked about, is the love that hurts, or the love that makes whole. We haven't the words for how to mourn the loss of someone who never even was. We have no clean way of expressing the joy of a bursting pride for someone else who defied all odds; we haven't even the expression for the sense relief when it's our own accomplishment. We call it validation, we scorn validation. And yet we long for the feeling, the arousal. We sing songs that call for love, when what we really need is to be heard in everything else, to be understood as we simply are."