Beyond Recall

I am Valium, of the second Unit, Third level, zero zero three of Terra One. I sit and stare at the blank, white wall. They are correcting my mental deviation. And yet, even as the white light gently washes my Cerebral Cortex, I can still hear the steady plod of The great beast's feet and the jingle of the Metalled straps. I look inside myself again, but find nothing to Match my dreams. My memory fails the images. Nothing gives substance or meaning to my strange Hallucinations, if that is what they are. Something!... of ineffable grace, weightlessness and Beauty soars into the unpolluted air of my mind and Sings a song of such sweet pain that I feel a Physical stab to my heart. What can it be? 'A darkling thrush in blast-beruffled plume'. What strange words and yet what ecstatic sounds! The great beasts plod on, steaming at their sides, Powerful, but gentle beasts, singular, magnificent Beasts with heavy, hairy feet. More words come to haunt my brain, 'Hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind'. How beautiful the sounds, even without meaning. What is wind? Perhaps they are from some long banned videotape? I know not. They said I should not have these thoughts; Counter productive and socially regressive they said, Adding that a period of correction would Cleanse my brain. It has not. Somehow I feel that it never will. These things, images, sounds, must have some Purpose that I know not of. A perfume now assails my nose, pungent in its Strength, but not unpleasant. More disconnected words, bread, fresh, The smell is warm and comforting as of a... Why does kitchen spring to mind? What is kitchen? What is bread? I know not these things and yet regret their Passing, if passed they are and not prophetic be. I am soft-sift with many thoughts fallen from the Outer space of another time and another place. They have squeezed themselves into the capsule of My being, without relation to the cold world of Terra One and I weep that I have not the wit to Make them sense. What means now the smell of burning flesh that Waters thus the palate of my mouth and conjures Tastes that tease the tendrils of a memory aeons gone? Soft caresses of a summer breeze would seem to Mean so much yet goes for naught. There is no summer in my world, no breeze nor Soft caress. We, they say, are perfection reached. Processed with care from genesis to re-cycle time. Perhaps there lies a fault in me? A computer error in my genetic genesis? I know not. I know only that the things I now hear, see and Smell have a quality and joy I tremble to imagine. True perfection is, perhaps, a common thing we Tread beneath our feet or carelessly destroy in Searching for that very virtue. Perhaps these things existed and we buried them Behind white walls or beneath vain-glorious Monuments to progress and our own greed. If so...wither now?