Draft:
Did it Rain That Day?
Not much is remembered about that day. Not really even the date. It’s a funny thing, given thought. Not “ha-ha” funny, but you know how things are funny in a weird way. Perhaps what remember is the funniest (or weirdest) way of all.
What I do remember most of all is the confusion. Confusion, pain, and numbness. So I guess one could say in my nothingness I remember a lot. William Blake wrote it best: “And, when night come, I’ll go/ To places fit for woe,/ Walking along the darkened valley,/ With silent melancholy.” But with these memories it seemed as if it were constant night.
But then again, who’s to say I remember any of these things right at all?
They say that each time something is remembered, the brain’s chemicals alter it, so that eventually the memory becomes distorted. Out bodies make so fleeting a thing that much more fleeting. It seems so cruel a trick of fate. But at second, look perhaps not. Perhaps it is best that we don’t remember the full extent of the pain. Perhaps if we did, out minds would surely crumble, like a clay wall baked in a harsh sun for many a moon. So, perhaps it is best that I even have to ask, “did it rain that day?”
Certainly it rained in our minds all day. It rained for months. The monsoon poured, and poured without end. The blackness and darkness was crushing.
On that day details fade in and out of remembrance. The bright, cheery blue of the bleachers contrasts with the dark, heavy sadness. But the cold, hard surface matches the coldness and numbness of our hearts.
Revised Piece- Throughout this piece, I really felt quite solid. I love memoirs and how effective vagueness can be in getting across a deep and true message so effectively. But, I did feel that there were some places where I wasn’t quite specific enough. So I tried to go through and make some of my messages come through clearer, and even got rid of a paragraph that digresses more than it helps. So my goal is through revising to keep a perfect mix of aloofness and poignance.
Did it Rain That Day?
Not much is remembered about that day. Not really even the date. It’s a funny thing, given thought. Not “ha-ha” funny, but one knows how things are funny in a weird way. That strange way in which humor is neither intended or present, but the obscurity of it all prevails. Perhaps what remember is the funniest (or weirdest) way of all.
What I do remember most of all is the confusion. Confusion, pain, and numbness. So I guess one could say in my nothingness I remember a lot. William Blake wrote it best: “And, when night come, I’ll go/ To places fit for woe,/ Walking along the darkened valley,/ With silent melancholy.” But with these memories it seemed as if it were constant night.
But then again, who’s to say I remember any of these things right at all?
They say that each time something is remembered, the brain’s chemicals alter it, so that eventually the memory becomes distorted. Our bodies make so fleeting a thing that much more fleeting. It seems so cruel a trick of fate. But at second, look perhaps not. Perhaps it is best that we don’t remember the full extent of the pain. Perhaps if we did, out minds would surely crumble, like a clay wall baked in a harsh sun for many a moon. So, perhaps it is best that I even have to ask, “did it rain that day?”
On that day details fade in and out of remembrance. The bright, cheery blue of the bleachers contrasts with the dark, heavy sadness. But the cold, hard surface matches the coldness and numbness of our hearts. All of it lies in a thick haze. And so I have to ask myself
Did it Rain That Day?
Nolan Schad 