The way the tube-light reflects on an aluminum table-top in a deserted room.
The taste of the water in the taps of a particular city you visited on holiday.
The smell of slightly rotting mangoes fallen on the ground beneath a mango tree in June. The squelchy and freshly tarred road, slightly damp with the first rains.
A voice, permanently frozen in a grainy recording that just came up on Shuffle. The background noise of hawks crying while you played the guitar and she sang.
The feeling of curling moist sand between your bare toes. Tiny clods breaking up into tinier clods only to be washed away by the next wave. You un-curl your toes to form new clods and then there’s that sinking feeling of settling a little deeper into the sand. The next wave washes away your new set of clods and you sink a bit more.
.
Sometimes they bring you succour. Sometimes they fling you into a whirlpool.
Sometimes they spring up on you when you least expect it. Sometimes you seek them out to drown out and over-write them, like picking an old scab on purpose.
Do you trigger memories, or do memories trigger you?
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