I remember things. Things I have no recourse to remember.

Not things dredged up from the darker recesses of my past, or from those things that I will never forget but from those mental irregularities that I might call forgotten memories. But I – in fact not even I as I have no control over them – some thing, my brain, my mind, whatever, has a habit of recalling places – corner shop frontages, classrooms, car parks, indeed any visual impression of place – from my life and throwing them up in front of my mind’s eye at random, inconsequential points throughout my day. For no reason. Places I may not have been to for decades, places I may have only visited once in my life instantly, for no reason, pop up in my mind.

And I am not shocked, at least not in the first instance. I think about them, awash in an unknown nostalgia and am only shocked after the fact. Shocked by the sudden reminiscence of a place I have not forgotten but have no reason to recall. There is never any link or association with what I am or was thinking about at the time (either time) and I do not remember things that happened in these places unless I make a concerted effort to recall anything that might have occurred there. I just think of places. Visually, but in a fully sensual way. And I wish I could go back there. Wherever they are, no matter what I did or did not do there, no matter how many associations, good or bad, I may or may not have with these places, I want to go back to them.

If I am dissatisfied with my present situation, I have been for years.

Tom Rodgers

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