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 a little kid, maybe 6, my dad worked as a welder. One day he brought me to work. He would to start his drive at 4am. I remember riding through the city on the bench seat of his 80's Mazda B2000 pickup. This is the first time I remember seeing the glow of sodium lights covering everything I could see in a soft, warm orange light. We lived in the country and I had seen singular streetlamps, but never anything like that, passing under rows of lights on the urban interstate and through the city. That was over 20 years ago and every time I drive on a road at night lit solely by sodium lights it takes me right back there to simple times with my dad, a humble welder, but still my hero. Technology changes, but I hope there is never a night when there is no sodium light remaining. Maybe I'll tell my grandchildren about the warm, calming glow of the past. But words can never convey the magic I felt.