My Mind's Room

I wish I could see darkness in the distant corners. Truth is, I'd be happy just to be able to make out the walls.

When I sit and stare out the window as I often do, my mind starts wandering. I find myself formulating analogies, making comparisons, coming up with descriptions, and all kinds other ways of explaining my shortcomings and idiosyncrasies. I am my own psychologist. One of things I have come to grips with is the fact that I have a bad memory. I would so dearly love to write about my entire childhood and be able to recollect every nit-picking detail about it! But can anybody really? Sometimes I'm under the impression that people can because I read things that they have written that can only be explained by an above-average memory.  Well, either that or they are just good a spinnin' a yarn. What if, even though it appears to be a complete memory to me (the reader), the person that wrote it is feeling the same sense of incompleteness and frustration that I feel? But as the reader I would never know that would I?  After all, how can you feel badly about missing out on a particular item at a yard sale if you never knew that item was there in the first place?

It frustrates me because I feel the desire to get my words down, but I just can't remember quite enough detail.  I can't quite recollect enough about the particular slice of my life that's on my mind to be able to tell how much of it's fact and how much is fiction. I just can't remember it. Why wasn't I paying more attention?  Why didn't I take notes?  Why didn't I keep a journal?  I know why:  Neither of my parents were literary people.  I had no role model.

I sometimes feel like my mind is a dark, dusty, cavernous room with one naked, cobweb-draped light bulb hanging in the middle of it. There is an old piece of string hanging from the pull chain, but I can't find it until I wave my arms blindly around me and I feel it brush my hand. With a slow tug on the string, the long, mechanical 'click' sends yellow light from the naked filament almost reluctantly, as if I've bothered it somehow by awakening it from its slumber. I look around the room, but it doesn't illuminate much. I can dimly see a few artifacts of my life scattered about--each one dragging a dull bit of a distant memory into the light where I can see it better.  I can't see all the corners of my mind's room. I can make out a wall here and a wall there, but I can't even make out how big the room really is. I can't see everything in it. I'm afraid to leave the safety of the dull, yellow light--knowing that if I shuffle away from it my body will block what little light there is and keep me from seeing anything in that direction. I take cautious steps away from it, craning my eyes, trying--hoping--to see more. I want to see everything.

But it's no use. The light bulb is dim. It won't show me the reaches of my memory. I can't see enough to know if I've seen all there is to see in that direction. I would be happy to be able to see more experiences in the distance or be able to see farther than I can see. I would love to be able to see all the walls.

I tell myself: "It's no use. You will never see the corners. The light bulb in your mind is not replaceable with a brighter one. The best you can hope for is to clean some of the dust off of it and make it brighter. Or, maybe if you stand long enough you will accustom yourself to the dimness and be able to see a little farther." No--it's no use--the details just aren't there.

I'll just continue to feel my way along the floor of my mind, purposefully shuffling so I don't inadvertently step on anything of importance, collecting things I find as I go.

At least my mind's room is not completely empty.