the place where memories don't stick
since moving to this silent town, i’ve noticed that i’m repeating stories and forgetting people’s names. that might not be unusual - but it’s the only part of my memory sliding - like oiled tiles slipping off a stone roof on a gray day.
everyone has one innate talent - mine is that i have an excellent memory. my whole identity is tied to it.
to feel one’s identity being slowly torn away, like so much dough being stretched out between hands, is highly distressing.
i’ve learned that this type of memory is called episodic memory, and that it is tied to place, time and emotion.
and my town offers little of all three.
each day starts the same, each day runs the same and each day finishes the same. i try to break it up by doing something unique, but the only thing that seems to work is getting out of town.
i’m getting older - i don’t want to travel all the time, i want to stay home and not think about anything.
since moving to my town, i’ve started repeating stories and forgetting names again.
cogs grinding to a halt.