That which springs from the memory is not love
The mechanical repetition of memory is not love
The re-iteration of memory and reliving of memory in billion different ways is not love
And the inheritance of memory of love from my environment is not love
The pleasure of a memory is not love
The fear of a memory is not love
The escape of a memory is not love
The experience resulting from memory is not love
That which belongs to me, that which I think is mine, that which I think I posses is not love
It is only a memory, a memory of the thought
A thought of the memory
so many thoughts, so many not’s
so many not’s with so many knots
so many knots with so many thoughts
My own thoughts and the resulting memories are my own confinements, my own comfort
The more I try to escape, the more I try to cope, the more knots I weave, the more memories I cave myself into
How many thoughts till I am free from the memory of thoughts
No thought that I know thought as the thought
From no time to time I create time
And from time to time and in-between time, I create a space, space for a time, for a thought
Can this thought of mine be free of memory, can this thought be free of recollection, reliving of the memory?
If so, what would such thought and the resulting action if everyday life be?
And most importantly, what would the resulting I that I call MY, of such thought be?