Dogma

 The mystery of first meeting 2002 or 2007 OF THE  Mason

He says one, I the other

Mason was a man of certitude, a granite island in a shifting sea of doubt. I had ventured to question the contours of his memory, a tentative probing of a mind seemingly carved from marble. Had we met in the twilight of 2002 or the gilded dawn of 2007? A phantom of a meeting, perhaps, a specter haunting the corridors of recollection.

Mason’s response was a cold, indifferent wind. Such speculation, he implied, was a symptom of a disordered psyche. Yet, when I turned the lens on himself, the man dissolved into mist. A hypothetical, it seemed, was a labyrinth too intricate for his mind.

I pressed on, a desperate explorer seeking a crack in his armor of conviction. What evidence, I inquired, could possibly dispel this fog of certainty? His irritation grew, a storm gathering on the horizon. In that moment, I realized the futility of my quest. Mason was not a man to be swayed by logic or reason; he was a monument to his own reality.

Perhaps the fault lies not in your steadfast memory, but in the treacherous currents of my own mind. It is conceivable that my recollection, a fragile vessel, has been battered by the storms of time and circumstance. Perhaps I have conflated fragments of other lives into the tapestry of ours, a phantom embroidery wrought from the threads of desire and longing.

Or it could be that the echoes of other encounters have reverberated in the chambers of my memory, misattributing familiar tones to a different melody. Like a haunting refrain, these echoes may have obscured the true score of our past.

And yet, it is possible that the weight of suggestion, a subtle influence, has shaped the contours of my recollection. A whispered word, a shared glance, or a fleeting image might have planted a seed of doubt, blossoming into a garden of false memories.

Finally, the relentless march of time, with its ceaseless procession of experiences, may have overwritten the delicate script of our shared history. New chapters have been written, their ink blurring the edges of the past, until the original story is lost in a labyrinth of recollection.

P.S.

I understand that this may seem like an unconventional approach, Mason. Given your aversion to digital platforms, I've taken the liberty of transcribing the visual content into this format. I hope it conveys my thoughts as effectively as the original medium.