He stood very still as the feathers fell. Collecting at his feet, forgotten memories. Maybe they were his memories. Memories as unreliable as feathers in the breezy air. This way, that way – which way is true? Which memory is true?
He reached out and grabbed one of the floating feathers and brought it to his chest, making the memory his. But he knew as soon as he opened his hand the memory would fly away and be lost in the swirling memories around him. So they weren’t his memories. He was lost without his memories and felt so alone. Quickly, in desperation, he reached out again and again gathering as many memories as he could. He would keep them all. They would all be his, pressed to his heart because it knew the truth. He would hide the truth with the forgotten memories that weren’t his own. He would not be lonely and the illusion of his sanity would not be ruined.
But his heart would not be hidden. It mocked him for his vain attempts, his deluded ideas. He wept as the feather fell from wilted hands, his heart laughing. Slowly, tentatively, he reached into his heart and began to pull free his own memories. It hurt but they were his. He began to remember… There was so much sadness at first but he pushed his way through the sorrow and the heartache and found laughter. It was his – he was laughing.