I remember my life through the feeling of things; it’s as if my nervous system collected chosen sensory experiences like the BFG collected choice good dreams, and they’ve been lined up in crystal-clear glass jars not only in my brain but also - moreso - along the surface of my skin, the scillia of my nose, my taste buds and the corners of my eyes.
When some body memory is triggered, something outside of myself, it seems, places a tiny finger atop the lid of one jar and, giggling at me through slitted eyes, smashes the jar to the ground of my self: bedlam! my soul sobs; mutiny! my heart cries. And all the while the memory itself dances irreverently on the shards of its shattered prison, leaving a trail of bloody footprints for me to follow.
It is this irreverence toward the past that has, quite unmethodically, cluttered my mind with its ghosts and fairies and angels alike. And the little imp who is to blame, though she seems to exist outside of me, peers at me from within chocolate brown eyes through jet black hair, does the deed with an olive finger and an air of gall I know too well; the little imp looks curiously like pictures of myself around two or three.
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