Brand Recognition

There are moments in time that flash into existence, burning a permanent brand upon the brain. These moments, these bursts of action, speech, emotion or thought shape us. They may not be visited often but when a trigger causes us to brush past, the brand glows anew. Bright and pulsing, as fresh as the day it was thrust upon you, they shout down the corridors of your mind, "Feel!"

Hurtling back in time, you cease to exist in the present moment. Instead the memory plays itself over again. Engaged in the sensations of the event there's a tangible, authentic texture to it all.
And then it ceases to be. You are back in real time. The present. Static clicks briefly in your ears. Pins-and-needles numbness freezes your fingertips momentarily until hot blood pumps back into the cold digits.

The usual questions spill forth. Why? How could it feel so real? Contemplation on answers to these wonderings is wasteful. But, you ask, what ought I be thinking? Reflecting upon?
Consider the context of your present situation. How is it similar to the branded recall event? What parallels can be drawn connecting two strands of time along the web of conscious thought.

Close your eyes and creep the halls of your sub-conscious mind. Run your hand along the smooth walls of memory feeling for the brands. You caress the raised edges of that splinter of time, that grain of sand on the beach of infinity and electricity sparks in the cerebral cortex. Neurotransmitters fire blasts of memory-laden beams of energy and lo, you re-live your memories.

Today a glowing brand pressed into the clean walls of my brain, there for me to recall at opportune moments or, involuntarily. The sigil steams as the hot iron pulls away, hanging in the air as if to admire its handiwork. Satisfied with the product of its craft, the branding iron is gone.

All that remains is a man running, firing two shots from his pistol at the pursuing police. Those shouting law officers, moving in a line shoulder to uniformed shoulder, pistols drawn. Commands left disobeyed, the officers fire systemically ten to twelve times.  The fool goes down, dropping his handgun. Outclassed, outwitted and in pain, he begs. Sympathy flees. Mercy turns its back.  Justice rolls up its sleeves and applies the wrist restraints. Onlookers gasp, hands to mouth. Squad cars continue to respond until the area is swarming with paramilitary presence enough to overwhelm any odds.

I remember to start breathing again and drive on. The brand falls into shadow, its alcove in the halls of memory sealed with webs of time. Webs that only can be removed by the sub-conscious spiders of recollection.