I can’t really remember much. What was of me before the chaos? When exactly did the chaos start?
I can’t remember.
Maybe it’s because I don’t want to remember. Maybe it’s because my brain cannot distinguish between what really happened, what I felt that happened and what my nervous system kept inside its cells as vivid memories.
I’m not even sure if the term “chaos” is the most appropriate; but whichever the right word may be, the past times (distant and recent ones) and the present times have felt very much so. They have been “turbulent”.
I can’t really remember a “non-chaotic” time in my life.
Maybe that’s what this so-called “life” is about. Constantly having to resort to your stored mechanisms, those that you had to create precisely to survive the uncontrollable waves of riotous events happening one after the other.
The “chaos”. Getting bigger, stronger. First, the earthquake; then, the tsunami. And you, you are standing there, right in the middle of Ground Zero.
Maybe that’s the purpose of the “chaos”. To test and retest our endurance. To come up with thousands and thousands of mechanisms that force us to pull through the mayhem. And then keep us prisoners in a never-ending loop of backtracking.
In an almost helpless set of automatic flashbacks. Flashbacks that hurt. Flashbacks that damage their own foundations and replace the broken parts with patches of prototypes. Prototypes that generally fail, almost always surrender to the power of the strong pre-existing structures. Prototypes that may prosper, that grow and get ready for the next surge.
Maybe that’s the reason why I can’t remember. Because before the chaos, I was not this version of me.
That past version of me has become one with the “chaos”; disappeared, pulverized. And it only left behind a bunch of confused cells running along with my nervous system like a deranged and unbalanced assortment of outcasts.
Maybe that’s the reason why I don’t want to remember.
Because I just don’t want to get attached to any version of me.