“We did not change as we grew older; we just became more clearly ourselves.”
Cindy, 1966, aged 2.
As far back as I can remember I felt myself apart from things; with a sense of looking on at life as a chronicler of time and events. There was always a subconscious I will recall this one day; every colour, sound and scent. Even now, there is a ghostly doppelganger me, watching behind me as I go about my day, pressing my actions into memory like dried rose petals in a journal.
I’m thinking about the novel I am currently reading; where a character has Alzheimer’s disease and is slowly losing all memory of her past. What a brutal robber the illness is! I think. And then I wonder; does it really matter, after all, she’s blissfully unaware?