Fuzzy places

What’s in a name? Everything. It’s my identity. It is how people know me.

I revisit the above thought process whenever I’m unable to recall a person’s name. The memory of the face and expressions and how that person made me feel is vivid. We assimilate the world in images, not in words.

I’m happy to see a profile pic on messaging apps, email, or social media. I don’t have to stress about placing that person correctly. I can’t fathom the meaning of certain long names or pronounce them correctly, but what the hell? It doesn’t matter if the person touches the right chords in communication to produce music. A rose will only remind me of thorns if it creates dissonance.

When all the names are swallowed up by the coldness of dementia or the grave, the warmth will matter. Souls are fuzzy spots.


Prosery at dVerse

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