The (near) total memory of a few studied individuals shows, perhaps, not their enhanced capacity but a present capability already available but not yet accessed by each one of us. The subconscious is an apparently necessary sinkhole. Sink whole, I wrote.
(The whole stink sunk somewhere.)
Those who display this vastly capable memory may have a subconscious without holes? We others hold our memory as a limestone sunken lake into which sacrificial victims have been slung. For the peace of this surface community the depths hold troubled offerings.

A total memory surely alters time – the moment simultaneous.

Time is emotion memory action (both thought and physical) reaction (physicality both emotional and intellectual); reaction and action and memory and emotion are filtered by intellect or transferred emotion or habits of remembering. Every filter forces experienced time into a line; relax any one filter or remove and time blossoms as an experiential field. For to unpack even a moment; that: can That be unpacked? The ever finer focus revealing connection, fertility, event, meaning, a single moment becomes an hour or more. And can unfolded Being ever be returned to a merest moment?

The written word is all too apt to follow the memorial cruelty of the sacrificial lake; a great limestone chasm, the white page. As each sentence is forged so others must necessarily die. And yet, as the sentence grows and curls and pushes into paragraph, do not the dead sometimes return to life? Each neglected flash of possible, the ignored option, the buried aspiration seeps into the questing, furtive, hopeful wording. These scattered remnants will gather, a growing formation integral to the resultant life. So are the people an alphabet, persons express meaning and combine to discover new meanings. All life is present to all life as each brush mark of the calligrapher carries ink, one ink for the whole text.

Adam did not require the subconscious, he knew not death. Becoming death, Life intended not this, and yet it is here and the meaning must be expulsion, hardship, pain. Meaning making, knowledge, pain, hardship; these are a few of the raw elements from which a subconscious is forged. The unconscious as an invention of an experience dragged back and forth between abysmal lake and surface community. The unconscious is an indefinitely delayed sacrifice and, at the same time, the primeval gods’ repayment for their bullion and fat.

The grace of limitless movement without sacrifice and without impatient delays made of egoic gods; the realm of God is such a narrative. Such a narrative is encompassed in but a single moment, it may be spoken only in one Word, it is not a Word ever to be said and yet it is Spoken.

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