bordertown

...how can the distance remain so far for so long? ...the bordertown, ever on the horizon...

There was a time before this time when memory seemed just that much closer. You never felt, then, any need to gather things around you in the event that you may one day forget. Age did not exist. Adulthood, a myth. No, you had no need to hoard reminders, no need, then, to build a personal museum. Your memories could be conjured up, effortlessly, at any moment. Second nature. The past was always close at hand - but that was then.

...could it be? ...already? ...your first unsteady step on the shifting streets of this phantastic town delivers a jolt to your system... the winds pick up... dust gathers in the wet of your eyes...

In your early twenties, you were a collector of bird images; images either stolen by automatic imaging machines - cameras - or borrowed by talented rendering - drawing, painting, sculpting, and the like. At the time, with youth nipping at your heels, you began to question your own actions. Like all collections, yours had no known beginning and you could foresee no end - and this, queerly enough, caused your young mind great discomfort, and was enough to prompt you to take action.

...turn back... turn back...

Failing to think of any reason at all for the preservation, the continuation, of your vast collection, you grew tired of asking yourself why, and decided to at once disassemble the freakish assortment. Over the course of a single week, the images were either given away, sold, thrown out, or simply lost in the shuffle. In the end, not a single image remained.

...once here, you will never go back... more a promise than a threat, really... wrap that coat snug around you, son... pull your hat down tight... lean into the wind...

You can only recall, now, the images from your collection that you really cared about. And you regret, now, the loss of those tangible images you truly loved, for to have them committed to an untrustworthy memory is to have their integrity perpetually debased. Presently, the entire collection rests in a place between; a place neither quite remembered nor quite forgotten. Slowly, each of those images shall grow increasingly distorted in your weakening mind. Slowly, each of those images, those memories, shall die alongside you.

...how far to the next town? ...years... how do I get there? ...the same way you got here... how will I know when to leave? ...you'll know...

...you'll just know...