My faculty of memory has taken an odd turn lately. I’ve
started seeing memory as a kind of falsehood because none of my life ever happened.
It’s as though all the people, all the events, all the feelings, all the
pleasures and all the pains were but still photographs past which my
consciousness was ever moving at a regular speed, observing and responding as
though I were a part of them. And yet still I like to let them run through my
mind’s eye like stop motion animations while being unable to know whether they were real
or not.
Conversely, I’m becoming irritated when I read of somebody famous having died, and the news report always follows the fundamental fact with a list of mini obituaries dutifully written by other famous people who claim to remember them with fondness. I find obituaries pointless, you see. I struggle to know what value there is in casting plaudits at somebody who can no longer hear them.
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