They're your memories, right?
The blurred line between dream and reality
This post is a bit of a journey. I apologise in advance…
It is at the tip of my tongue. That is how it feels when I would recall a distant memory that I cannot seem to figure out. When did that happen? Who was there with me? I would gnaw at whatever semblance of an anchor I have about the memory at hand, trying to give context to the very clear image I see in my mind’s eye. But sometimes, the answer I would reach is that those things never occurred at all. I would like to think that I am able to distinguish if it was a dream or an unimportant episode of a locally produced television program that was probably discarded as soon as it aired, But I am sure that is not always the case. Ask all the friends who had helped me find movies with bizarre plots I remember watching only to come to a conclusion that they don’t exist.
When new things happen, they efface the old. I don’t obsess over the boyfriend I had at seventeen whose bear hug you can just sink into, or worry if my grade-school best friend has a more trusted confidant than I. I do still cringe at my performance of I Dream a Dream at the Fall Foliage Fair in Indiana when the memo was clearly country from time to time though (but I think we all do that)… The first thing never happened, not in reality anyway. It was just a dream I had during one of the COVID lockdowns. But it could have could it not? If the brain tells me my memories like how I relayed that dream to you, my dear reader, would I know for myself if that hug was real? The moment an image is remembered is the same moment it becomes a memory. It is, supposedly, our duty to compartmentalise these snapshots and label them as real, imaginary, happy, embarrassing. But how do we keep them organised?
I hinted through the snapshot metaphor that my memories are seen in images, but I have always wondered if we all perceive memories the same. Are they words scribbled onto the brain, getting buried deeper every time it was written over; Are they supercuts of movies to be lived vicariously through when dug out; or are they like a Pinterest board made up of pictures taken through the irises?
I would accredit my first conscience to the inquiry of how memories are stored to the 2019 film, Doctor Sleep. It depicted the memory chamber as a hall — library, inventory however you would like to see it — filled with drawers where memories are kept. I initially took its conceptualisation as fact. It must be that all my experiences were there, in files and folders and drawers, neatly tucked away to be fetched by the little man living in my head when I need them. But the longer I lived with the idea, the more inaccurate it seemed. Scenes of my life would flash into my attention, unwarranted, and I would not know where they came from. And if I could not identify which mental drawer they flew out of, how do I know if there are drawers there at all? They did happen though, that much I am certain of. But I just realised that it cannot be that organised in there.
Maybe the failure to organise my memories, or generally anything, is a me problem — my fatal flaw per se — because there must be better ways to keep them. Or if I were someone who is fundamentally less scattered, I could at least stop thinking some of these flashes were real when they were not. It could be that I had simply overfilled them. After all, I am always after new experiences and would take my excitement for them in stride, but to say that I was responsible for overwhelming my memory chamber feels too narcissistic when I know there are people leading more fulfilled lives. Not to mention its dishonesty when entire weekends could be spent in my room watching some trilogy. Ultimately, all things listed here could be the source of all the confusion; my inconsistency. But I have no desire to fix that, at least not right now. One thing is true. The more I live, less of each individual memory stays in view. They pile, overlap, merge, in content and category. If the brain capacity’s work is limited, it makes me anxious to think what could happen when that limit is met.
A new building complex was just unveiled in my city. I watched the glass panes glisten, still in pristine condition, as I rode past it on a hired motorcycle. I don’t know If I had seen anything like it. I have not been here long enough to know for sure if this is exceptional or if other buildings once shone like it does. How long, then, until it is marred by the city and the glass becomes dull. Would that happen before this moment becomes just another picture filed away at the back of my mind. Would I think I saw it in a dream?
