My inevitable frequent visits to my native land are resulting in a proustian retrospection that is consequentially deciphering my present through a long forgotten past. The Madeleine that awakened many reminiscences from Proust's childhood had no effect on mine when savored in Paris, however, many of my mom's recipes and family reunions bring back to memory traces from the recycle-bin of oblivion.
Toe-curling home-made recipes, that I have missed for a decade, are latently associated with afternoon naps and dreams that are followed by family reunions and discussions over coffee. Deja-vus take me back to a tough childhood that survived many years and tears of civil war.
It must have been impossible to forget the war without suppressing related memories from my childhood. Therefore, I can hardly recall anything from when I had less than 12-15 years old. I almost feel that I never existed before I was 12. I must have been born or reborn at 12 give or take. A huge bokeh of my childhood is barely the picture I have thanks to old family photo albums and stories from the past.
Hence, I wonder: Does my putative nonexistence explain my life at such an astounding pace as some kind of compensation? If so, when will I settle down or give in to a relatively normal pace?
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| Retrospective Glance |
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