Memory Scaffold

Your body is not just flesh. It’s archive.
Every cell holds receipts.
Every tendon, every strand of fascia, a ledger of impact, of history, of silence.

This is why healing hurts.
Because you’re not only touching this moment.
You’re touching every moment that came before.

Memory is a scaffold.
It holds you upright even if it cages you.
It keeps you from collapse even if it narrows your sky.
But scaffolds are not destiny.

Memory masquerades as architecture.
It convinces us it’s the building itself.
But a scaffold is not a home.
Stay there too long and you mistake the bracing for the building.
You forget the architecture you came here to create.

Healing is demolition and design.
You don’t erase the scaffold. You honor it.
You lean when you must.
You strip what’s rotten.
And you build aligned with the life you hunger for, not the one your scars prepared you to survive.

Scaffolds are persuasive.
They tell you, this is the structure, this is the limit, this is all there is.
But healing means seeing the trick.
It means asking, what was this scaffold protecting?
What if the scaffold can fall and the building, you, still stand?

This is the work.
Not memory-mind on repeat.
Not trauma as blueprint.
Because survival-rigging is not the same as living.

Not erasing memory but rearranging its frame.
Not bowing to the default of mind,
but designing something that answers to vision, desire, and the pulse of creation itself.

A future strong enough to hold you.
A present wide enough to move in.
A past you no longer have to carry like bone.

The past will always whisper.
But you get to choose, let it draft your blueprints or simply hold the ladder while you build something new.