i don’t know how i managed to get so old at such a young age. not that i’m young. but you wouldn’t think forty one would be the age at which you found countless things constantly reminding you, usually quite poignantly, of something years ago. i just never know when my brain will hop in the wayback machine, it’s quite distracting.
and it’s not the specific deja-vu, it’s the glimpse of the background of the snapshot of the time it brings back. and it’s not the memory or the sensation of remembering, it’s the sadness of losing the rest of the memory. because my past is not a movie in my mind, it’s a shoebox stuffed messily full of pictures and mental notes scribbled on scraps of this or that, not in any chronological (or any other logical) order. so i will suddenly flash on a moment or an event, and have no context.
and you know how they say about old people who are losing it, they can’t remember what they had for breakfast, but they can tell you what happened [insert large number of years] ago like it was yesterday. well, great, but i have neither. i have snippets and excerpts and bits and pieces. and i don’t know where my car keys are either.
and this is probably why i hate cleaning my house. living in clutter makes me feel so at home, considering the state of my brain these days. and probably other days too, i’m sure i’ve always been more or less like this, only now i have a weblog so i watch my thought processes more closely, always hopeful to get a post out of it.
the only thing i really clearly have, is a record of the last year and a half or so. words and pictures, organized and searchable. if only i’d grown up blogging, i’d have the memories here where i can play with them when i want to, not be left to the mercy of my own mental disarray.
i don’t remember what the question was, but blogging is probably the answer.