Recurrance

Ever wondered what it would be like to lose your ability to store new memories? Short term memory loss. Media and propoganda have probably made you familiar with that term. But spare it a thought beyond the realm of film.
If your life began and ended every 15 minutes, how awful would that be?
Not at all. Allow me to explain.
I live a life of analogies and misunderstandings. Im hoping this story will help you realize what a blessed life a memory loss patient lives.

Waking upto gunshots is not exactly the dream life of many. But my condition puts me in situations like this. Or so I assume. The unnerving part is me holding the gun and staring at the eyes of a man  who just lost his life. Im trying by instict to see what emotion that man last conveyed before I helped him. I like to tell myself I helped. It doesn't matter anyway. Soon Im gonna be having this argument with myself. Thats my life. Lives rather. I dont have the ability to make new memories. I survive on notes and small paragraphs that I write myself to remind me of who I am and why I do what I do. Its a jungle out there they say. But the real jungle we're afraid of is in here, in our minds. The whole while. We just choose never to go hunting. So much for pleasantries. Although, wait, whats that at the window...


Flashing lights in your eyes is not how someone would like to wake up. But thats when I realize Im already awake with a dead man on the floor and a gun in one hand. A helping hand with the pun intended, if I may. But in the other hand, I hold a note written by a familiar hand to the not so familiar situation.
You are a nobody. Leave like one.
Golden Park Hotel. Room 908.
I am a dream walker, I say to myself. I live my own dreams and nightmares and I learn. But most of all, I teach. Who, you ask. Myself. Its a cycle. I learn while I teach and I teach while I learn. I guess wordplay isn't affected by my condition.


The sound of a moving train is not how someone would like to wake up. But I'm already up.
Trains move and so I assume, I am moving to somewhere. Where, I ask.
The note in my hand explains. I look around and see people with faces like mine, eyes like mine, and yet. How different we are, I wanted to tell that woman who stood next to me. I wont remember you in 10 minutes and I never will really know you more than how you present yourself to me every 10 minutes. Its a cruel life, said her face, as if Fate were playing a cruel joke on me and she had heard every word I had just thougt.
Maybe it is a cruel life. But this is my stop. And thats what I do. I Stop. And then I Start.


A train door opening and masses of human scum entering and leaving is the sight that I was born into. I miss my mother. I recount her face from memory and I realize that there's a chance she doesn't know of me anymore. Its a cruel world. A jungle they say. But the real jungle, is up here, in our minds. The note I clutch in my hands tells me where to go. And I, the obedient servant of myslef, follow.

908.
Its a funny no, 9. Any number containing the digit 9, when all its digits are added result in the sum of all the digits except 9. Try it. And any multiple of 9, when digit-added results in 9. Instinct tells me I have a thing for numbers. I've already made almost 18 (again, a multiple of 9 and a beautiful no. of its own accord) observations and conclusions on a 3 digit no. Its a funny world.

The room is empty and devoid of anything that encourages or implies that what lived within its confines was what would be called an average human. I think I would've liked to give this impression to anyone snooping on me. I raise my hat to myself. I live a good life, being able to marvel at my handiwork everytime as though I see and understand it only for the first time. I see that the toilet is very well maintained and once again, I marvel at my need to be clean even when little in the world matters.
On the desk I find a document filled with details of one person. I'm not one for names so I'll just skip it. I search for some sort of writing I recognize and I find it.


Waking up to a lone table in an empty room is not a story most would share. But this, alas, is my life. I see the paper has some words on it. Written by as familiar as familiar can get. By Yours truly. It Read:
He raises interesting questions. Probably he holds a cure to the misery ?
(To what misery?, which is soon answered)
How do you know that what you are thinking now has not been thought all your life and will be thought for , for the remainder of your life?

Suddenly, I shiver. Such brilliance. Such concisement in the matter of my life. My biggest problem brought down to one fucking string of words.
I ask myself, how do I know if I haven't spent all my life thinking whether I have spent all my life thinking of my life?
Its a circle of insanity. That never ends. That never ceases. That never stops.
Even imagining my life in this aspect makes me shudder.
But then, in the simplicity that only I can understand, it hits me.
This is not insanity.
It is pure beauty.
Why it sounds insane is because you think that you remember that the cycle exists. I do not. Each time is as genuinely felt as the previous and as earnestly awaited as the next.
It does not affect me. But yet it poses a problem.
And solutions to problems are a bit of my speciality.

So I tore the note and made another. Even more concise than the last.
It read:
Kill Him. He challenges the beauty of your life.



I woke up to a note telling me to kill someone.  To a note from me telling myself to kill someone. Of all the people in the world, who else would I trust but myself?


Now,
If I can only remember where the bloody bullets are?




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In completely unrelated news, I just got a BlackBerry.
Which means that getting in touch with me has never been easier. Drop me a line if you require my BB pin, my phone no. or any of the email id's that I can access via the BB.

Stay safe .


-
V


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Now Listening:
Hello Good Morning - Diddy Dirty Money
Please Don't Go - Mike Posner
Dum Maaro Dum (the original one ) - Dum Maaro Dum

Now Reading : My BBM conversation with Shivani. \m/

Now Feeling : Sinister