And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold
–Edna St. Vincent Millais, “Recuerdo”

There’s a theory that every time we access a memory, a new memory is created in its place. That the act of recollection is, in fact, an act of destruction–or of augmentation. That each of our memories is replaced by a facsimile of itself.

These memories aren’t really gone, of course.

They’re still there, just a few bytes larger. A file that’s accessed, amended, and saved again. Each time encoded with our perspectives and experiences as we continue living our lives, looking back on where we’ve been.

In this way, isn’t memory also made of the stories we tell? ◒