We are apt to think that our lives are shaped by memories, by the multifarious impressions left by experience. While this seems intuitive, we overlook the forgotten, the oblivion that we are, which shapes the current moment. We are much less than the memories, and much more of the oblivion. The process of forgetting is much more instrumental in shaping our being. What we are is of little matter when looking at what we are not.
There is a perpetual disassociation that occurs to my being, an infinite splicing that happens to me, which leaves a residue of alienation. While I occupy the moment, there is a person that trails behind who I cannot escape and who I am a stranger to. People speak his name in my direction, recall his attributes as if they possess me, appeal to a person who is a stranger. Michael contains far more than I am, and I contain far less than he is.