Memory

A/N: This piece was inspired by a real man - Clyde Wearing. He contracted a virus which made him unable to record new memories, so that he is trapped in at most the past 30 seconds. He recognizes only his wife, retains a considerable musical talent, a large vocabulary, and writes a form of diary. He has no inkling of his condition. I have tried to imagine the thoughts and emotions he might have gone through whilst writing his diary.

What I am writing about is very important, not only for me, but for science, and it is for the advancement of science that I am recording this moment.

You see, this is my first moment of consciousness

I found myself in a small, tidy, and rather impersonal room that I do not recognize. It contains only a few chairs and the desk I am writing on.

I feel as if this is an opening, a beginning, as if I have just been born and everything is fresh and new, but that cannot be right, because I know these things, the things around me; I know their names - a pen, a book; empty, for writing in, a lamp, a clock. And my hands, they’re grey, and creased, like crumpled paper carefully smoothed out again, and there are worms, under-the-skin worms, that wriggle like they want to get out when I move my fingers.

That means I’m old, doesn’t it? Old and nearly dead. What has happened to me, then? Was I asleep, or am I dreaming now? What do they call it when a person’s brain stops, for no clear reason, then starts again, just as strangely? A coma? Perhaps that is what has happened. Is it? Did it happen like that?

I - I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything. There is a fault in my head, a gap, an empty hole. What is missing? Surely there must be something for me to remember? I have a sudden vision of fully grown, fully clothed men, complete with top hat and cane, tumbling out into the world in a great clattering muddle, then collecting themselves, settling their hats, scowling at their watches, and marching out through the streets. I shudder. That is not how it is, but what have I forgotten? What was I? Was I famous? Was I good? Did I do anything? What was I good at? Was I happy? Did anybody like me? Did anybody love me? - did I have a family?

I don’t know. I know as much about myself as any passing stranger in the street. I do not know my own history.

Memories define a person. They tell them how to act, how to react, when to laugh, when to cry, how to cry - what to do and what to feel. They tell them how to be themselves, how to be a person, how to be - human.

What does that make me then? What am I? I am empty. There is nothing inside. I have no direction, no drive, no goals or desires. No longings. I am a ship cut loose, mapless and mastless, captain and crewless, oarless and overawed at the great expanse of ocean. I have no personality. No meaning. I am an animal, a complex machine, a clockwork figure, wound once and set to run, now close to stopping. I am a mask, a façade, a shell, a husk, a... a ... a....

NO!

No. I am here, I exist, and yet, I am more than that. I have thoughts, emotions, I feel pain, I hurt, I have a will, a consciousness. I have a...a……. shoe………. the bottom.....of a………..shoe, a…...a……..s……..s………

What was I writing about? It doesn’t make any sense, and I can’t remember. I don’t think it mattered, much.

I don’t know whose book this is: I don’t recognize the handwriting. I could not find anything else to write in, and I needed something, because what I am writing about is very important, not only for me, but for science, and it is for the advancement of science that I am recording this moment.

You see, this is my first moment of consciousness.