Memory Compression
Matthew Ryan Fischer
They tell me the memory loss is natural and part of the process.
Why would I argue? They’re the engineers. They say something about compression
and data mining, and I nod and agree as if I understand their theories. To me it
seems as if certain things happen. That’s it. They talk about order, causality,
and interconnections. I live it and leave the rest up to them.
I remember certain things. A picnic in a park. Outside a museum. I
remember a fountain and children running. I remember a hallway and a bedroom
and a nightlight. Something must have happened in-between. That’s how time is
supposed to work. That’s what they tell me.
I can see her breaking a laptop. Throwing it on the ground and
stepping on it. Was that before or after the park? Was that the same house? The
same woman? I can’t tell.
There are the events, and then there’s the blur.
No evolution or epiphanies. Just things. Moments of time experienced.
Over and again, in any order. Over and again. Unclear what was before and what
was after. How many times have I done the same things? Often enough I can’t
tell the difference anymore. Maybe they’re the same or maybe they’re different.
Similar but impossible for me to tell if I’ve changed or they’ve changed or we’re
making any difference.
I do not know what they are hoping to learn. They do not share
that with me.
Where do I go in those moments in-between? Am I a ghost, doomed to
only exist in those certain key moments? And what of all the other moments I
can’t recall? Did I live them and lose them, or do they lie to me when they say
it all existed somewhere and some time? I bounce, but forget as soon as I land.
Slipping in and out of moments, out of lives, out of time, only to be drawn to
the repetition.
They say something about magnetic energy and entropy, but their
words are foreign and the meaning is lost. All I know are the moments I am made
of, and can only feel those are real and everything else is simply a doubt and
a question mark. The world is unexplained, and I am a blank slate.
They ask if the events are in order. If I can tell. If it makes
sense.
I don’t know what they want or what the correct answer is. They
ask before and they will ask again. Over and over. As many times as there are
moments to remember. What am I supposed to tell them? What do they think I can
do? Time and again, live and answer, live and answer.
My mind goes back to the woman and the child. I get a flash – a women
on the bed with a guitar and in a dress. But that seems wrong. She wore brown. And
pants. So, what was the dress? Was she the same? I can’t see her face. It was
just a flash. Something new? Something to remember? Did I live it or dream it
or wish I had something to tell them. If I had something to tell them they
might smile and I could stop. Is that what they want me to say?
Time made no sense. The present is always taking place. Everything
was always taking place in the here and now. I am young and I am old, but
somewhere in-between this all happened. The woman, the child, the questions. Somewhere
they began it. Somewhere it must end. How do I end it? How do I find the ending
when all there are are loops?
Am I even really here? Is this just neurons firing one last time as
I fade into darkness? If that were true, then why would they require some many
answers?
I want to wake up. I want to matter. I want to know all the rest
of what happens between the moments. They say there’s a purpose. I want that to
be true.
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