There was a time in youth when you could see the garbage piling up in your mind.
There was a time, a moment, when you shuttered to think of the way you were at risk of pollution. Internal pollution. When you realized your mind was a landscape. That trash was congealed energy. That trash was an external manifestation of an internal reality. The crumpled Frito bag on the ground was a form of the image of the bag in your mind. And that what you put in your mind stayed there, like garbage brought to the dump. There is no such thing as away. As in “to put something away”. “To throw something away”. Nothing in the formation of synapse and neuron transmission is ever gone away. It all stays in the place where we dump it. There is a time in the mid to waning years of the life of a mind when we succumb to the reality of impaction. Of a density and volume of collected trash and pollution within us. A resignation to the condition of over fill. We see too much in this life. We put too much in our heads. We cram all we can into a space we imagine as limitless. There was a time when the physical world seemed an endless frontier. And a time when we saw it as finite. I wonder, tonight, about the accumulation of a trillion images of garbage. Stuffed back into the waste dump. Pushed back so the lovely is forefront. So the beautiful is supposed as prevalent. What we see every day doesn’t go away. The decay and the commercial; the evil and the mean. The stupid and the vane - the vicious and the obscene. It all goes in - and stays.