The essence of fragments lies in their sporadic significance to each person.
I am often curious about how a particular person remembers me. There are passions associated to fragments. A broken piece of glass even in a garbage dump has its story. And even if dungs were scattered in a smoky or fumy cluster of turds, they still come from something. That bandaged creepy-looking doll on the corner of the basement, the shredded pieces of papers in the bin, the sewn ragged jeans inside the old charity box – they resemble a parcel of time in the world that once means something to someone: a cheerful girl, a man who wrote a draft that made him won a piece, or an adventurer at the hype of fashion.
Objects in the state of proximate deflation represent the fragments of an otherwise prized possession in the memory of its subject. And what are persons but paradoxical subjects who happen to be objects of other subjects also. In this case, a person can be an object that evokes remembrance. That is what happens to it precisely when it still goes in a timeline that flows continually. The subject carries a void that scatters along such line fragments of itself, so that little by little, it sends snippets of vague connections to those it passes. There is no illusion. In these fragments there are real encounters that happened at some or one point.
If I remember someone I happen to encounter within that line, I carry within me a part of that event as if reality is incomplete without it. In such a limited frame, missing someone is as normal as a passing day. The time that you share together is all gone, a thing – that indescribable moment and limitation of language one can only coin to express it – of the past. For one only recounts the past if it means something that lets you progress along the way: its glory lies in its being an identity constantly dissolving to keep up with the present.
I then am only here now because of the significant memories that shaped me into what makes me progress in this life. And a large part of it I owe to someone that I’ve shared that timeline with even in a such a short span of time rather than space, in fact a moment, a vague one that comes up to me as a reminder of an ideal: that at one point in time, I had an ideal, a direction that she once led me into. She may in fact does not recognize it but I am still into that lead. She doesn’t know, and it’s oblivious but she also does not care. Reality very much confirms that. That’s what triggers my curiosity. Something dissymmetrical stands between us: I go down into the memory lane while she on the contrary dissolves it simultaneously in forgetting. This might really define what fragments are for: their essence lies in their sporadic significance to each person.
She made that clear at the beginning of the line: ‘I am not good at keeping in touch.’ And I should’ve believed that more than it made me believe in something else. It was not a moment in a sense that it was a moment of freedom, a day of rest or a vacation in some place. It was a vacation time for me and a break for her, but as much as I would like to believe otherwise, it was beginning to be so. It was not even the time. It was about the conversations that happen within it. It was a start, and somewhere I saw a spark of belief surge through me like it was about to capture an untold story. And now it is standing in a corner hidden by the year that covers it.
Many things have already happened then. But I still remember, because once again the fragments start to emerge when the objects that associate them remind me of that time when there was still a connection between us, devoid of all prejudices. So that makes me curious. What might she remember of the temporal residue that she left behind?