I am convinced that there is a reason we forget birth. Birth is so chaotic and entirely violent that the human spirit cannot comprehend it. We come out screaming, so hurt we don’t even understand that we are alive. The spirit ripped apart, brutally torn from itself, isolated and given want. We want to live then, we cling to it, gasping for air, but we don’t even know what life is.
What a thing to endure. We cannot help but forget it. The brain rejects the experience. The flesh cannot make sense of it. So we forget. We forget ourselves, and we are left with nothing. As a blank book we begin life. As we grow, we get roles, and with time we learn to play along.
But I fear there is something left. Something written in the margins. Perhaps just a feeling. Not written in flesh even, just a faint imprint in the nature of being. Something screaming at us. Something rejecting our roles, rejecting the mind. If you listen real good, you may hear it. It does not want, it does not need. It does not say anything at all. It just screams and screams. Remembering and forever unable to forget.
A siren’s scream it is, hauntingly beautiful. Listen, but don’t get too close, you may find yourself remembering what you are.