the moment before memory - Trang Doan's Newsletter

Sometimes, at the moment waking up, I forget who I am. A pink ray of early sunlight hitting my eyes is all there is to my consciousness. In this empty space, it doesn’t matter if I exist or not, but not in a sad way. Then fraction by fraction, the memories come back - “oh, my mom said this to me yesterday”, “ah, I have to do this today,” “right, my lover hurt me like this.” It’s almost like in Iron Man, where Tony summons pieces of armor to his skin, except that only the armor exists and I’m completely empty. Back with those fractions of memories are the emotions they carry - all the worries, wallows, deep love, and longing. Attaching memory by memory, I’m back to being me. When I meditate, the opposite happens. I shred memories. All the worries, wallows, deep love, and longing, all cease to be me. Instead, they look like fractions of consciousness, floating around. Sometimes they enthrall my awareness. But sooner or later they fly away, then there’s quietness. In this quietness, every

Sometimes, at the moment waking up, I forget who I am. A pink ray of early sunlight hitting my eyes is all there is to my consciousness. In this empty space, it doesn’t matter if I exist or not, but not in a sad way. Then fraction by fraction, the memories come back - “oh, my mom said this to me yesterday”, “ah, I have to do this today,” “right, my lover hurt me like this.” It’s almost like in Iron Man, where Tony summons pieces of armor to his skin, except that only the armor exists and I’m completely empty. Back with those fractions of memories are the emotions they carry - all the worries,