I write things down because of fear. I don’t have a good memory. Just read earlier that Terry Pratchett is suffering from Alzheimer’s. In a reddit AMA, Stephen King wrote that his worst fear is having Alzheimer’s. Losing memories is a terrible thing. All those wonderful moments. They are really the only things that you have. We don’t own things, we own ideas of things. Something something ‘the world is my idea.’ Something something ‘the world is not made up of atoms, it is made up of stories.’ Losing memories means you’ll lose the ability to make stories, you’ll lose the ability to string together sentences and paragraphs into a coherent whole, into a story. Without a story, life does not make any sense. It would be a nihilistic existence.

Life is narrative. Losing memory is losing that ability to create narrative, to create meaning. Losing memories of loved ones is terrifying. The horror/terror? is doubled? made more ironic because it is not you that is doing the crying, since you can’t remember. It would be your loved ones, because they still have their memory of you. You don’t have your memory of them when you’re suffering from Alzheimer’s.

Just right now I am recalling that moment spent with Ms. S.U. in Star Mall? where the first time we met we hugged. It was a good solid hug. I was almost shocked by it, it was so physical. So real. So solid. We talked about what’s going on with our lives. She was living I think in U.P village somewhere, I’m not sure. She was biking. Then we went to another place to buy grocery. Then I walked her to that spot where she parked her bike. Such an independent young woman. It was very impressive. I like her because I like talking to her. Imagine talking to a young Japanese woman in Tagalog about Nietzsche, Foucault, power, knowledge and postmodernism. This latter conversation we had years? earlier in the CASAA eatery near the AS aka Palma Hall. This was when we were classmates in a class under Prof. T. My classmates were amazed that I am friend with this Japanese girl who speaks Tagalog so fluently. I recall her slight lisp. I remember her voice. I recall her laugh. She calls me by my nickname. I remember being fascinated by that moment while it was still happening. I am fascinated as well every time I recall that memory.

Those conversations, those deep deep conversations where you feel like you’re at the same mental wavelength with an individual, like you are seeing another more beautiful, more interesting version of yourself, like you’re in a deep spiritual and mental union with someone, that kind of thing is beautiful. Another beautiful memory, and this one is more idyllic. There wasn’t much conversation in it. It was just us, Ms. MC, side by side sitting on swings. I can’t recall the conversation. What I recall are the sensations, that swaying movement. The green grass. The smell of the grass. Her voice. It’s kinda faded now, this memory, but I cannot forget it. Even earlier, years earlier, I remember those memories with Ms. AE. Memories upon memories upon beautiful memories. Now imagine losing them.


About kara

I just like to read. Used to work in a library. My interests are horror and the gothic imagination, absurd and dark humor, urban legends, and other related unwholesome topics. I write short fiction sometimes. Older stuff:
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