It amazes me how hard the human mind can hold onto an idea. In dreams you see it fleshed out in Dali like abstraction. Upon waking it flashes across your thoughts like a brush fire. In moments of monotony it flashes down your spine like the shiver after a shot of whiskey. You can turn from it, but like your shadow it is always there. The memory, like a green green apple, is sweet and painfully bitter. You begin to wonder how it would taste in a pie.
In the moments of the memories making the smell, the taste, the feel is so all consuming it seems impossible that it could fail to permeate all other sensations from there on out. Yet, as time intrudes between the now and the past, the sensations become memory and lo! the flesh feels the scalding of bath water. The ears hear the chatter of others. The mouth tastes the bitter sting of coffee.
And there it is again, the memory. Screaming newborns are less persistent.
Seeking to reason with the memory you say, "Ok, fine! You get ten minutes and then I have to think about something else. Ten minutes. Go!"
The memory plays out like a poorly cast vignette, all the wrong bits emphasized, all sense of greater meaning lost. And then, of course, memory refuses to abide by its bargain and ten minutes comes and goes and yet the memory clings.
Oh, and your traitor mind delights in dreaming fantasy after fantasy built on that memory. Some of them are sweet and tempting. Some could make the most devout Catholic pale with the imagined shame and guilt and perhaps just a bit of martyrdom, for dramatic purposes only. And then there is that pie...
You start to think about Thinner, and how your memory would taste if it were baked into a pie. Would it be red or thick brown? Would it taste of decay or be sickeningly sweet? Would it be flaky or mealy? Not knowing any Gypsy's, who would deliver it? But that's just silly. That is not how memories, or pies, work.
Maybe you should just follow the train of thought that ends with you on a beach, drinking a margarita, reading a book, wanted in five countries for a stings of international robberies. You only turned to crime because you had to run away, and a girl has to eat you know. You'd be famous, because of course you would be good at being a thief, but you would leave little owl statues instead of foxes. Now, should Pitt or Clooney walk up the beach and purpose another heist?
Which is as crazy as the pie.
It is a wonder we can think of anything at all for all the memories rattling around our skulls.