Locked up makeshift storage of once useful things long forgotten can be opened up many years later. Short-term memory waves broke decades ago but still wash up on the shore today where a row of new worshippers sit on their meditation boards, as the old did, and wrestle with their desires while they gaze upon their floating temple that guides them through the oncoming set of watery frequencies. And the reflection of my shadow, of who I used to be and all that I was unaware of when transfixed by that practice, oddly fits back into this ramshackle lean-to memory shed that seemed less permanent at the time it was built.
It hangs there often ignored now. Just a pier. Something from a bygone era. Ships no longer dock at it. Only a few scavengers haunt it now. A lone fisherman waits in the fog. Barely existing in the forefront of anyone’s mind. But it is back there. In the deepest fog. Haunting minds with its ragged sculpture. This bare skeletal thing. This shadowy presence that hovers somewhere between memories. Some kind of phantom bridge. From the unknown to the unreachable. Affecting in its indiscernible way. An atmospheric link.