Imperfect Past

Image: a flower from my garden, a few days ago.

No flower is perfect.

The flowers of memory are always more beautiful because they only ever live in imagination.

In truth – all knowledge is of the past and in this moving moment we are never anchored upon reality so much as on an embellished fantasy and fading memory of sensation and experience.

Such is life and all experience is abstract, fantasy, unreal as reconstruction of an imperfect past that we are all compelled to inhabit as much by cultural convention as by cognitive inevitability or material and thermodynamic necessity.

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