memories

when asked if i think about the man i loved for a whole fifth of my life,
i can honestly answer that days sometimes go by without a thought.
when asked if i think about the man who raised me for the first fifth of my life,
i can honestly answer, again, that days pass, and when a thought appears, there is no accompanying emotion.
am i without a heart?
i like to think i'm simply more without strings
there are some, keeping me grounded to this moment, perhaps
but when each day allows for re-creation of this person i call myself
i need not be defined by the people, places, and things i've moved on from
on this the eve of a very big move
i'm mired in memories
deciding which to take
which to leave behind
which to donate
and which to discard
its a tiresome process, that demands nostalgia, measurement of pricelessness, and selectivity of necessity.
in the end, like my friend said, 'its just stuff.'
i still possess only two items from my childhood,
and will keep only one.
each year of your life becomes a smaller percentage of your life as time passes
and you own proportionally less from each era.
so many things being gifts, representing hard earned money of loved ones...i'm left with much to store.
and with them, i'm storing away that person who owned all those things
and realizing how much it feels like i could not even call that person me
the things changed, the things lost, the things forgotten...
and so this passage spoke to me:

"...how a file opens the door to a vast sunken labyrinth of the forgotten past, but how, too, the very act of opening the door itself changes the buried artifacts, like an archaeologist letting in fresh air to a sealed Egyptian tomb.
For these are not simply past experiences rediscovered in their original state. Even without the fresh light...our memories decay or sharpen, mellow or sour, with the passage of time and the change of circumstances...But with the fresh light the memory changes irrevocably. A door opens, but another closes. There is no way back now to your own earlier memory of that person, that event. It is like a revelation made, years later, to a loved one. Or like a bad divorce, where today's bitterness transforms all the shared past, completely, miserably, seemingly forever. Except that this bitter memory, too, will fade and change with the further passage of time.
So what we have is nothing less than an infinity of memories of any moment, event, or person: memories that change slowly always, with every passing second, but now and then dramatically, after some jolt or revelation. Like one of those digital photographs whose every color, tint, or detail can be changed on a computer screen, except that here we're not in control and can't revert at will to an earlier image. They say "The past is a foreign country," but actually the past is another universe.
-The File, Timothy Garton Ash