Signs, symptoms, symbols

This year has been an odd mishmash. Everything seems to flow together into one long memory, not a lot of signposts to signify significance. Usually when I look back I can pick out important things, they pop up in the visual representation of my life’s timeline that I draw in my mind. Two-thousand-eleven is a different monster. There is smooth road for most of the memory, some rough patches of broken pavement, but not rough enough to raise a detour sign, there have been people and places that have barely registered on my sub-concious. I’ve closed roads myself, opened others thought closed but only a few – so few – have become real memories.

This is odd for me, I remember everything, detail to a point where I wish I couldn’t a lot of the time. I can recall, with perfect clarity, conversations I had in preschool. I remember things about my early life that I shouldn’t be physically able to recall. My father told me that at four hours old I was lying in my cradle touching the ends of my fingers together in a pattern. I have simian-creases on both my palms.

Look it up if you’re bored. It’s in no way normal.

My point is this, what was it about this year that made it so…horribly average that I don’t want to recall most of it?

There were many good things this year, I’m not denying that, but I don’t have enough memories to populate a years worth of living in my mind when I think of twenty-eleven. I’m not certain how to feel about that but my gut-instinct, knee-jerk-response says: I don’t like this.

I’m looking forward to the upcoming year, I’ve got a lot going on, a lot of work ahead and I’m genuinely excited about it. But I can’t quite escape this nagging feeling that something isn’t quite right with my lack of signposts from the last year.

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