speed of light
Sometimes, I’m petrified by the fear of losing my memory. Who am I if i don’t remember who i was. It builds a clenched fist in the pit of my stomach and pulls every muscle in my throat. I can’t breathe.
I remember watching a play once (Blue Mug), sweating, clutching the wooden armrest. One end of my wife’s dupatta (or was it a corner of her shirt? i forget. fuck) was wrapped tight around my finger, for comfort; as a portal, the way back. In the play, the characters didn’t remember who they were. They were stuck, reenacting fragments of their lives, clinging to a part of the whole.
There are so many metaphors for this state of being. Tape, loop, record, rewind. Mechanical objects and actions describing a failed machine.
At times I couldn’t bear to look at the stage. Sometimes i pushed my fingers in my ears to block out the dialogue. I felt their desolation. His anger. Her loneliness. Their confusion. I watched through a window as forgotten places without names rushed by. The blurred places all looked like home.
As i read this story I thought that even perfectly lucid minds, the ones that store sepia tinged polaroids of every childhood game, indexed and cross referenced by insult and wins-losses, can also struggle with building a bridge between who they were and who they have become.
One looking at the other, like a rippled reflection and its owner. Part truth, part chimera. All parts, strewn, across a disappearing landscape.