I imagine I will never remember my whole past. Bits and pieces of it come to me, from time to time, but it is all out of sequence — sometimes without context. I think once a dream I had made me remember a part of it, but I can't be sure about that, either. I have imagined, as I have gone along, that one day, all of it would come back to me in one form or another, but the pieces have been few and far behind. The general theme, that I can follow, but many of the details have become scattered in the winds of time. I can only hope that the important things have stayed with me, that I have not let slip some vital secret of life I was too lazy to write down, or that I wrote down and lost the pages I wrote them on.
As I write about this, actually, some memories do come back. Some scant frames, a few flashes of recall. History never looks like history when you're living in it, and that applies to a life, too. The small decisions that led to other decisions that led to grand sweeps of change or turmoil. Our histories very few will record, and even if some will come and dig it up, they will perhaps fit the pieces together in ways they were not meant to go — they might get it wrong, even if they honestly do want to remember us. Sometimes, I think, the moment itself is enough, though sometimes the moment itself must suffice us. I will remember that I have forgotten some things, many things. I will regret for a moment, and let it pass.
