VIBRANT MEMORIES HAVE I STOLEN:

Without Hope, What Then Do We Have?

Memory is indeed a precious thing -- but as I have experienced it, tenacious, fickle and ever-fleeting -- you who have the better memory must revel in its riches -- while I, ever the forgetful, am left only to hope; yet I often pause, when I am able, to partake of such fond rememberings.

I remember you wore a green dress, and carried a white parasol. We spoke with the vendors in the market, and played music on our balcony; I feel it did exist in truth, and yet it cannot -- whose memories are these?

It would have been a grand one -- think you not? Yet ever now, both alas and alas. How strange the world would be should they be enemies -- yet, who decides? Are we truly safe in one another's care?

What desires they would have, what untold potentials -- but would they share with us in our vision -- or would they turn, only to destroy, usurping their creators?

Whom would prove most cunning and most brave; most deceitful and most loyal; most hatful and most strong? Such worlds do but swirl into existence before our very eyes. How lonely we must be -- destined makers of such empty worlds.

The sunlight in your eyes, and the wisdom in your song -- we walked white beaches, amidst the call of many birds, and the flowing of pristine waters. Our travels were vast, but it was hardly the distance that was important -- rather it was always within the heart of the imagination, and within the depths of the illusion.

They must needs be -- for they are as glorious as they are intangible.

Perhaps I should write, one day, of our travels -- while it is not you, nor is it I -- who travel on this vast, translucent tide of odd, unsettled dreams -- we are altogether elsewhere. Yet something of us each remains within, lurking near the shadows of a vision of perfection.

If only because it revealed some truth we are, ourselves, somehow, uncomfortable to comprehend -- yet such truths are valuable -- even as they are unwanted.

We gave heed to none, passing through the vines of ancient gardens, peering through the gates of forbidden vales and holds -- we would speak with all the hidden peoples of the earth, and they alone would display for us their beauty. We climbed through vaulted palaces of marble and of gold, to reach the sombre, untamed peaks of long forgotten monastaries, where we studied in the libraries of the elder ones, and wrote of our discoveries, all within the sacred books we call the soul.

Who are these bright, uncanny travelers, and what secrets must they hold?